Lost Is Where I'm Found
by April7739
Summary: Small-town girl Clarke Griffin and her boyfriend move to the city, searching for a fresh start, but nothing is as easy as they expect it to be. Especially not when Clarke meets her new neighbor . . .
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

Butterflies fluttered in Clarke Griffin's stomach as the red numbers on her bedside clock changed to 12:00. Midnight. She brought her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth ever so slightly, trying to calm her nerves and remind herself that there was nothing to be nervous about. She was just making a life-changing decision. That's all.

She sat in her dark, quiet bedroom, waiting, hoping Finn would show up on time for once. Her boyfriend was notoriously not punctual. In fact, in the two years they'd been dating, she'd grown accustomed to giving him at least a twenty minute leeway for everything. But if he made her wait too long, then she might talk herself out of this. And that wasn't what she wanted to do.

At 12:01, she glanced down at her cell phone, noticing that her friend Jasper was also up late. He'd posted a new video to Instagram of him and Monty chilling out in their dorm room. Apparently the first day of classes tomorrow wasn't dissuading them from playing video games well into the night. Jasper's girlfriend, Maya, had Tweeted out a few pictures of her over-stuffed backpack, the incredible view from her room, and a few smiling selfies with her new roommate. Some girl named Jennifer.

Looking around the room, Clarke let the loneliness sink in. Her friends were off on their new adventure now. Which was why she was about to embark on hers.

It took Finn until 12:05 to show up, but being only five minutes late was miraculous for him. Clarke knew he was there when she heard a small rock hit her window, so she nearly leapt out of bed and ran towards it, pushing it up so she could peer outside.

"Hey, Princess," he called up to her quietly, but excitedly. "You ready to go?"

Clarke smiled down at him, her nerves melting a bit when she saw that eager grin on his face and gleam in his eyes. For months, they'd been talking about this. Now it was actually happening.

She grabbed her huge duffle bag, stuffed fuller than she'd ever imagined it could be, and slung an impossibly full backpack (the same one she'd carried all throughout high school) over both her shoulders. Sneaking downstairs proved to be difficult, because there were so many creaky floorboards in this big old house of theirs, and her duffle was so big and heavy that she actually dropped it once. It landed on the floor with a loud thud, and Clarke grimaced, sure that the noise would wake her mother. She froze, waiting for the door at the end of the hallway to open up and for her mom to storm out and demand to know what was going on. But it never did. Which meant one of two things: Either work had worn her mother out, or Marcus Kane had.

Carefully, Clarke picked up her bag again, and this time, she didn't hesitate to just hightail it out of there. To hell with trying to be quiet and sneaky. She trundled down those stairs and didn't even bother to stop at the front door and take one last look over her shoulder. She flew out the door, as fast as she _could_ fly with two heavy bags weighing her down, and joined Finn at the car.

Finn was clearly amped as he loaded his own bags into the back of her Cadillac. "I'm so fuckin' pumped," he declared. "This is gonna be awesome."

"Yeah," Clarke agreed, handing him her bag so he could toss that into the backseat along with his. "This is crazy."

"Crazy amazing." He smiled at her and motioned for her to take her backpack off her shoulders, too.

Once everything was loaded up, Clarke handed her boyfriend the keys, and she climbed into the passenger's seat while he hopped right over the driver's side door and planted himself behind the wheel.

"New York City, here we come," he said, starting up the car. As old as it was, it made a horribly loud rumbling noise as it came to life, but once again, it wasn't enough to wake Clarke's mom up. Clarke kept her eyes focused on the upstairs windows, halfway expecting to see her mom run up to one of them and watch helplessly as Finn backed out of their long driveway towards the street. But she should have known that wouldn't happen. Her mother had other priorities now.

Still, though, looking at that house, the same one she'd grown up in all her life . . . it sort of got to her. She remembered sitting out on that big wraparound porch back when her grandmother had been alive, listening to stories about what it had been like for _her_ to grow up in the same bedroom that Clarke now had. She remembered playing around outside with her cousins and setting up a lemonade stand with Maya one summer because their allowances just were not cutting it. She thought back to all the nights she and Monty had spent studying for finals and the time she and Jasper had snuck a few of her mom's wine coolers back in junior high. (They thought they'd been so badass with wine coolers.)

But mostly, she remembered her dad. She remembered running around the yard in a fairy princess costume while he chased her. She remembered falling asleep while he sang her to bed at night. She remembered family dinners, where he'd always asked her about what she had learned in school that day, and she remembered Christmas mornings, when there had always been so many presents under the tree that it'd taken them at least five hours to open them all up.

She remembered better times.

The memories didn't fade, but the house started to when Finn put the old car into drive, turned the wheel, and drove off down the street. He didn't exactly go slow, either. One minute, she was looking at her house, and the next, the tree line was obscuring her vision. And she couldn't see it anymore.

Settling into her seat, Clarke let out a deep sigh as her heart pounded in her chest, either out of nerves or excitement. Or maybe both. She wasn't sure.

They drove down the familiar streets of their small town, where there were no traffic lights and no need for any, where the 25 mph speed limit signs were completely ignored and nobody questioned it. They drove past the grocery store, the library, the post office. They drove past her friend's houses, where they would all return home with heaping hampers full of laundry on their holiday breaks. They drove past the small hospital where her mom worked and past her dad's old offices, where a _For Sale_ sign was still plastered to the front door.

 _Thank you for visiting Arkadia_ , a sign on their way out of town read. _Please come again!_

She rolled her eyes, hoping she wouldn't have to. If everything worked out the way she and Finn planned, their friends and family would be coming to the city to see _them_.

It was a nice night out, still very warm, so Finn kept the top of the Cadillac down even out on the open highway. Clarke's hair blew back from her face, the wind making it so loud that she could barely even hear the music playing when Finn turned on the radio. He must have heard it loud and clear, though, because he sang along to every song, looking like the biggest goof ever. At one point, he even threw his head back and just howled at the moon like a coyote. Clarke laughed at him, happy to see him look so rejuvenated. An entire summer spent working construction had been hard on him, tiring, but even when he was exhausted, Finn Collins had endless energy. His plan was to drive all night, and Clarke didn't doubt he could do it. In fact, he wanted to make the eighteen and a half hour drive a straight shot. They could stop for food and bathroom breaks, he said, but that was it.

All night, they drove. Or rather, _Finn_ drove and Clarke dozed off once he put the hood up. Missouri was much like Kansas in that it didn't have a whole lot to see, especially at night. And Illinois was a lot of open fields and trees, all of which she'd seen plenty of in her life. So she leaned against the window, resting her head against the glass, and slept. But not soundly. Every hour or so, she woke up, not because of Finn's driving or even the loud music, but just because . . . she was restless. She kept fighting the urge to peek at her phone and see if her mom was calling or texting her yet. Surely she'd find the note taped to the outside of her bedroom door sooner rather than later. Surely she'd be worried.

After six and a half hours of driving, when the sun was already coming up in the sky, Finn pulled off the interstate to stop at a gas station and stretch his legs. Clarke did the same. While he filled up the tank, she went inside the station and bought some snacks. And breakfast pizza, since it was technically morning now.

Her dad had _always_ made sure she ate breakfast. Most important meal of the day and everything.

She was awake after that, for the rest of Illinois. She opened up the window and stuck her hand out, making rolling wave motions with her arm as the open countryside flew past them. But once they got into Indiana, things started to get less open. It wasn't that there were more exits or anything, just that there seemed to be slightly bigger towns coming off of those exits. They didn't stop at any of them, though. Finn drove straight through to Ohio before he needed to get out and move around a bit again. He stretched and twisted his back, and she could tell he was getting stiff. She offered to drive so he could get some rest, but he assured her he was doing fine. So when they got back in the car, he remained at the wheel, and she remained in the passenger's seat, and because her sleep hadn't been a restful one, she ended up nodding off again.

By the time they got to Pennsylvania, Finn was starving, so they stopped in the middle of some city—Clarke didn't even know which one—for lunch at McDonald's. She wasn't overly thrilled with her soggy chicken nuggets and undercooked French fries, but Finn seemed to think his burger was the tastiest thing in the world. He raved about it so much that Clarke finally had to mention their friends, just to get him talking about something slightly more interesting.

"I wonder what Jasper and Maya and Monty are doing right now," she speculated. They were in a different time zone now, but not by much. So they were probably in class, or studying for class, or just hanging out, enjoying their first _real_ day of college.

"Who knows?" Finn said flippantly before slurping down the rest of his pop. "Ready to go?"

Was she ready to get back in the car and sit for about three more hours? Not really, but she supposed it'd be worth it. In three more hours, she'd be able to get out of the car and walk into their brand new apartment. In the city. In _New York City_. The thought was thrilling. And a little overwhelming.

The farther east they drove, the bigger things started to feel. The cities they drove through were just that—cities. Actual urban areas with large populations of people. Places where there wasn't a "Main Street," places where country music did _not_ dominate the charts and not everyone knew everyone else's business.

Finn got a little prematurely excited and thought that New Jersey was New York, and he rolled down the hood again. Clarke wrinkled her nose up, because it was most definitely _not_ fresh air she was inhaling. Cities just _smelled_ different. And there was a lot of noise, a lot of traffic, even on the Interstate. A wreck up ahead slowed their lanes down to a near standstill for a good half an hour, and Finn started to get so impatient. He muttered something like "Fuck GPS" and started to veer off towards an exit, but Clarke told him just to wait it out. The last thing they needed to be doing was getting lost and end up at the Jersey shore or something.

By the time they reached New York City, it was nearly 8:00. Still light enough at this time of year for it not to look like total nighttime yet, but clearly the lights of the city were starting to come on for the night. Clarke's eyes widened in amazement at the vast array of buildings in front of her. All the cars. All the people mulling about on the sidewalks. She used to think Kansas City was huge, but this place made it look small in comparison. As far as her eye could see, there was just this gigantic, sprawling _city_. One she'd never lived in before. One she probably should have felt intimidated by. But for the first time since they'd left, she felt that same level of excitement that Finn did. The butterflies in her stomach finally vanished and instead were replaced by awe. She was pretty sure her mouth dropped open when they drove across the Brooklyn Bridge.

"We'll go sightseeing soon," Finn promised.

God, she hoped so. She wasn't a travel buff by any means, but why not go see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center now that they were here? Hell, come New Year's, they were going to _have_ to go to Time's Square. Maybe Maya and Jasper and Monty could come visit them for that. Watching the ball drop had to be a lot better than watching drunk frat boys play beer pong.

They drove past some nice apartment complexes, and Clarke found herself hoping they'd pull into the parking lot for one of them. But they never did. They just kept weaving through the busy roads of the city, and it seemed that, with each block they went or turn they took, the apartment buildings started to look . . . older. Rougher. Dingier. The particular neighborhood they ended up in didn't appear to be the nicest one. There was trash littering the sidewalks and plenty of neighborhood watch signs on display. A few blocks up ahead, red and blue police lights were flashing, and Clarke was pretty sure she could hear a domestic dispute happening down the street when she turned the radio off.

"Here we are," Finn announced as he turned right and pulled into the parking lot of the Mount Weather apartment complex. "Home sweet home."

Clarke surveyed the large building, wondering how many people lived here. It looked more like an old hotel—maybe it once had been. There were six stories, and some of the units had balconies. There was no grass in sight, though. It was all just pavement. So unlike Kansas.

She supposed she'd get used to it. She'd get used to a lot of things.

Finn turned off the car, eyes still aglow with energy and excitement, and said, "Let's go check it out."

 _I hope it's nice,_ Clarke thought. Maybe the outside was misleading.

Finn had been the one to handle all the apartment arrangements for them, but Clarke was alarmed to find that he still hadn't even signed a lease yet. He had to call up the landlord, who luckily only lived a block away, and he signed a lease right there on the spot. Clarke signed it, too, and after they forked over a bit of cash for the security the deposit, the landlord then gave them both a key. And that was it. They were now proud new renters of a one-bedroom apartment.

Finn loaded himself down like a pack mule in order to haul all of their bags up there at once. Clarke carried as much as she could, but her progress was slow since the elevator was broken and they had to trudge up three flights of stairs. It was a little disturbing to see a drunk man passed out in the stairwell, but they just stepped over him and continued on their way.

Clarke wrinkled her nose when they got up to their floor, because it reeked of pot. Somebody was definitely smoking something somewhere. Finn didn't seem to mind, probably because he'd gotten high a few times in high school. But Clarke had only tried it once and hated it, and she had no desire to ever do it again. Or to walk down a hallway every morning that smelled of it. Maybe if they sprayed some air freshener . . .

Finn's key got jammed in the door lock, and Clarke wasn't even sure they had the right apartment. As she was double checking the number on the outside of the door, he threw his whole weight against the door and shoved it open. "Nice," he remarked as he walked inside.

 _Nice?_ Clarke thought, warily taking a look around. The whole apartment was dark, so she couldn't see much. She tried to flip on the nearest light switch, but no light came on.

Finn set their bags down in the middle of the empty living room and walked over to the window, pulling open the curtains. It was still light enough outside that the natural light coming in allowed Clarke to see more of the space. Nice . . . wasn't exactly the word she'd use for it. Small, sure. Way smaller than Finn had told her it would be. The kitchen and living room space kind of just blended together. And actually, the kitchen was more of a kitchenette. They didn't even have a table, just a counter island with two stools at it. They _did_ have a refrigerator and an oven/stove combo, though, and a sink and cabinets. But not much else.

"What do you think?" Finn asked, holding his hands out to the sides.

She set her bag and backpack down, trying to think of a nice, not too nitpicky way to admit that she wasn't impressed. "It looks a little different than the pictures online did," she remarked.

"Well, yeah, they always do," was Finn's response. He ran his hands over the countertops and turned on the sink. It sort of . . . gurgled and then sputtered, but eventually, some water did come out.

"We're gonna need to get some food," Clarke pointed out, crossing the room towards the refrigerator. When she opened it, she couldn't help but make a face of disgust, because it smelled awful. "Oh god, and some baking soda," she added. "Right? Doesn't that help with a smelly fridge?"

"I think so." Finn was already wandering down the short hallway, so Clarke followed him. They peeked into their bathroom, which, of course, was also much tinier than the pictures had made it appear, but at least there was a tub with a shower curtain around it. Finn liked showers; she liked baths, so at least they both could get their way here. Clarke was a little too scared to look at the toilet, afraid of what permanent stains might be in there, and really, she was more interested in the bedroom anyway.

"Oh, sweet," Finn said as he opened up the door to their right. "We got a balcony."

 _And another empty room_ , Clarke thought, already making plans for how they could arrange things in there. They'd need a bed, obviously, or at least a mattress for now. They'd brought one extra-large sleeping bag and two pillows, and that was it.

Finn slid open the glass doors and stepped out onto their balcony, which, much like the rest of the apartment, was small. But Clarke could definitely picture herself sitting out there in the morning sometimes, strumming her guitar.

"Decent view," Finn noted.

She joined him out on the balcony for a second to see if that was true, but . . . unless a view at the run-down homes across the street qualified as a _decent_ view, she didn't see what he was seeing.

"I think we're gonna love it here," Finn said, ushering her back inside. He slid the door shut and said, "See, I told you my cousin could hook us up with a good place."

She tried to smile, but . . . she had to force it. This just wasn't what she had pictured.

Finn put his arm around her and hugged her to his side as they walked back out into the living room . . . and kitchen. The living room/kitchen combo. (And here she'd never even lived in a house without a dining room before.) He started talking about where they could put the couch, once they had one, and the TV, once they had one. He asked her if she wanted him to paint one of the walls brown, like an accent wall or something, and she said she'd think about it. She completely tuned out of the conversation, though, and tensed up when she saw a mouse scampering across the carpet to a whole in one of the corners. "Finn," she said, pointing it out.

"What?" He looked over there, too, and just shrugged. "So we'll get a mouse trap."

"We have to get a lot of things." She was already making a mental list. Furniture, groceries, air freshener, now a mouse trap, too . . .

"We will," Finn assured her, reaching into the front pocket of his jeans when his cell phone rang. He said, "It's Cage," and answered right away. "Hey, man, we got here."

Clarke let the cousins talk and bent down, opening up her purse. She pulled out her phone, checking for a text or call from her mom. There was one text, but nothing substantial. Just her mom letting her know that they had a job opening at the hospital. Probably something janitorial, which was hardly a step up from the drive-in movie theater Clarke had worked at all spring and summer.

 _She must not have seen my note yet,_ she thought. Knowing her mom, she'd walked right past her room in her haste to get to work that morning, probably hadn't even noticed it. But sooner or later, she would. Or she'd realize that she hadn't seen her daughter or heard her mulling about at all. Sooner or later, she'd find out. And when she did . . .

"Yeah, yeah, I'll meet up with you," Finn was telling his cousin. "Just text me the address. I'll find it."

Clarke frowned. Finn was going somewhere? Already? She'd sort of imagined that they would unpack the things they _did_ have, try to make it look cozier in there. Or that they'd go out and stock up on some food. They'd eaten like crap for the past nineteen and a half hours. Maybe they could even go out for dinner somewhere to celebrate the first night of their new life.

"Alright, see you soon," Finn said as he ended the call. He shot Clarke a semi-apologetic look and said, "Baby, don't hate me, but Cage wants to meet up and talk about some work stuff. You know that's important."

She sighed heavily, knowing it was. But it still sucked that, on her first night in a brand new city, brand new _state_ , she was going to be alone. "Okay," she said, reluctantly accepting that Finn's job was going to have to be a big priority, especially since she didn't yet have one lined up.

"Okay." He moved in close to her, put his hand beneath her chin, and tilted her head up so he could give her a kiss. "Thank you for understanding."

"I'll just do some unpacking while you're gone," she decided.

"I won't be out long," he promised. "He wants to meet up a couple blocks away. I'm just gonna walk. Should be back by 9:00."

In Finn time, that meant at least 9:30. She wasn't exactly sure how she was going to pass the time until then. Maybe she'd give her friends a call, let them know that she and Finn had actually done it. They'd left Arkadia. Monty and Maya would be surprised, but at least they wouldn't be angry like her mom would be. Jasper would just be proud.

For about half an hour after her boyfriend had left, Clarke busied herself with unpacking. She first set out her guitar, leaning it against the corner walls of their bedroom. Then she laid out their sleeping bag and pillows, hoping the floor wouldn't be too uncomfortable for a night or two. Thankfully, Finn had packed plenty of snacks—crackers and chips and granola bars, mostly—so she munched on a few things as she unpacked their clothes and hung them up in the closet. There was only one closet, and it was right by the front door, but at least it was spacious enough for both of them to share.

The mouse reappeared right when she was debating whether or not to set out a picture of herself, her mom, and her dad; even though she didn't like the pesky little critter, Clarke wasn't about to be some helpless girl who climbed up on the counter and squealed in horror until it went away. She grabbed a clear plastic bowl—one of the few bowls they'd packed—and chased after the mouse, quickly sensing that it was more scared of her than she was of it. She managed to get close enough to slam the bowl down on top of it, but the determined little mouse struggled and pawed against the sides, like it was trying to get out. Clarke sat there with both hands pressing down on the bowl, afraid that it would get loose if she let up. She really didn't want to kill it. She just wanted to keep it trapped there until Finn got home. Then he could toss it over the balcony or something.

Using her feet to pull her half-empty duffle bag closer, she reached inside with one hand and took out one of her _Harry Potter_ books. Placing that on top of the bowl, she felt like that would be heavy enough to keep it down and keep the mouse imprisoned, so she sat back and sighed tiredly. All this unpacking was kind of wearing her out.

She thought about going into the bedroom and curling up on that sleeping bag for a while, but that seemed impossible when, all of a sudden, a tremendous shouting and yelling arose from next door. She couldn't make out much of what was being said, but it was _loud_.

 _Oh, no,_ she thought, bracing herself for another disappointment about this place. Had they gotten stuck with lousy neighbors? Were the people next door going to start throwing vases at each other or, worse, throwing punches? Was that cop car down the street going to have to pull up here next?

She heard a door slam, followed seconds later by a persistent, loud knocking. A male's deep, gruff voice seemed to be saying, "Come on, let me in," and for some reason, curiosity got the best of Clarke. She got up, creeping closer to her door, and pressed her ear against it, being nosy.

"Bree!" the guy shouted. "Come on, you can't just lock me out of my own apartment!"

"Leave me alone!" the girl next door screeched.

Sounded like a break-up. Must've been a pretty bad one. Clarke tried to look out her peephole and see if she could catch a glimpse of what this obnoxiously loud neighbor man looked like, but it was so dirty, she couldn't see a thing.

Hesitantly, she opened up her door, stepping out into the hallway with a feeling of uncertainty. Whatever was going on was none of her business, and in a city like this, it was probably best to just not get involved.

The guy next door had dark, olive skin and dark, messy hair to go along with it. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of his black t-shirt as he continued to pound on the door. When he glanced over at Clarke, he apologized, "Sorry," and then continued to slam his fist against the door insistently. "Bree, let me in! This is my place!"

"Fuck you, Bellamy!" Clarke overheard the woman shout back. She thought it was best to just slip back inside her own apartment and let them hash it out themselves, so that was what she did. Or at least what she _started_ to do. She didn't close the door all the way, though.

"Just let me get my keys then," the guy—Bellamy—implored. "I gotta get to work."

"Screw you!" was the girl's reply.

"Bree, please . . ." he begged.

"No!"

Clarke heard him sigh heavily in defeat, and she kind of felt bad for him. His girlfriend sounded like a major bitch.

 _Close the door,_ she told herself, not sure why she hadn't done so already. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in some other couple's dramatic domestics, especially when she didn't know them and didn't know if it could turn violent.

Despite what her mind was telling herself to do, her hands had other ideas. She pulled open the door again and slipped back out into the hallway. "Is everything okay?" she asked the man.

"It's fine," he—Bellamy-muttered, but clearly it wasn't fine. He leaned back against the wall, shut his eyes, and shook his head.

 _You don't know him,_ Clarke reminded herself. _He's a stranger._ But she and Finn didn't know anybody in town except for his cousin, and . . . she supposed it couldn't hurt to be on speaking terms with her neighbor. "Do you need a ride to work?" she offered, and those weren't the words she'd meant to come out of her mouth. Those were the kind of words she could speak in small town Arkadia, where she knew everyone and where everyone knew her, not the kind of words she should be saying in a city with a high crime rate.

For a second, Bellamy looked to be considering it, but then he said, "No, it's not that far. I can just walk or try to catch the subway. I won't be that late."

She nodded, but still . . . she was willing to help. "I can drive you," she said, figuring that she had her pepper spray in her purse. This guy didn't give off creepy killer vibes, but just in case . . .

"Really?" He sounded surprised that a girl he didn't even know would take a chance on him.

"Yeah. Just give me a minute." She slipped back inside, shut the door, and took a breath to steady herself. What the hell was she doing giving a ride to a stranger? Probably hoping that, by the time she dropped him off, they wouldn't be strangers anymore, and she could be on her way to making her first friend—or at the very least, acquaintance—in this big city.

She grabbed her purse and took her keys out of it, double-checking it for her pepper spray. Yep, there it was, easily within reach. Maya had given that to her last year back when they'd _both_ been planning on going to college. That and a rape whistle, since college campuses were notorious for that sort of thing.

When Clarke headed back out into the hallway, Bellamy was still standing there, waiting for her. "Thanks," he said. "You don't have to."

"It's no problem," she said, struggling to get her door locked. It wasn't just Finn's key that was the problem; it had to be the whole damn lock. Finally, she got it, though, and said, "Let's go," leading the way down the hallway. Bellamy followed a couple steps behind her, hands in his pockets. He stayed behind her as they headed down the stairs, but when she walked around the drunk man, he stopped and helped him to his feet. "Hey, go upstairs, Dale. Sleep it off," he said. "You alright?"

The man nodded dazedly and stumbled up a couple steps, mumbling, "Thanks, Bellamy," as he went.

 _Oh, yeah, he's not a bad guy,_ Clarke thought, feeling a little more relaxed. Bad guys wouldn't waste any time on their drunk neighbors.

When they got out to the parking lot, his eyes widened in shock as she led the way to her blue vintage Cadillac. He didn't seem to think they were at the right vehicle at first, because he asked, "This is yours?"

"Yeah," she said sheepishly. She was well aware what a fancy car it was and how it stuck out like a sore thumb in this parking lot full of dilapidated trucks and other junkers.

"Wow," he said, smoothing his hand over the hood. "It's nice."

"It was a gift," she said, climbing into the driver's seat.

"Top down, seat back, rollin' in my Cadillac," he mumbled, shaking his head in amazement as he got in on the passenger's side.

"Where do you work?" she asked him as she started the car.

"Grounders," he replied.

She just nodded, as if she had any idea what or where that place was, but clearly he saw through the façade.

"I'll tell you where to go," he said, leaning back in the seat, draping his arm over the side of the car.

"Okay." She hoped it was easy to get to, because she couldn't deny being a little intimidated by driving around in New York City for the first time. There was so much traffic, and just because Finn had been able to handle it fine, that didn't mean she could. She was used to gravel roads and roads with no traffic lights. This was a major change.

She turned on the radio once they got out on the streets, keeping it low enough that she could hear all his directions. Bellamy told her what lane she had to be in, when to turn, and assured her that it was perfectly normal for other drivers to be honking at her. New York was full of angry people.

"You must be new in town," he remarked as they drove down a busy street at a fairly decent pace.

"How could you tell?" she asked. Did she stick out like a sore thumb just like her car did?

"You're driving with the hood down," he said.

"Do people here not drive with the hood down?"

"Not really," he said. "You're breathing in some of the most polluted air in the country."

She wrinkled her nose, thinking that . . . yeah, it did smell kind of bad.

"Plus, I can just tell," he said. "So where you from?"

"Uh, Kansas," she replied, and it wouldn't have been at all surprising if he had no idea where that was.

"So you're pretty much Dorothy and this is the Land of Oz?" he surmised.

She laughed a little. "Pretty much."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing: There's no wizards here."

She glanced over at him curiously, but his freckled face was looking off in the other direction now.

A song Clarke didn't even recognize came on the radio—some hardcore rap thing—and she felt embarrassed when Bellamy started mouthing the words, because she didn't know any of them. She was _so_ accustomed to country. Even though it wasn't her favorite genre of music, it was the _only_ genre that played over the loudspeakers at her high school's football games, the only genre that the DJ had played at homecoming and prom. It was everywhere there and nowhere here.

"So what's your name?" Bellamy finally asked.

She'd sort of forgotten that she hadn't yet told him. "Clarke."

"Clarke," he echoed. "I'm Bellamy."

"Yeah, I know," she said. "I . . . heard."

He shook his head frustratedly, apologizing again. "Sorry about that."

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"Who, Bree?" He made a face. "No, she's just . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head some more. "She's a bitch."

Clarke's eyebrows shot upward.

"I mean, not like . . . not like in a derogatory way," he clarified. "She's just a bitch to be around sometimes. She freaks out."

"What'd you do to make her so mad?" Clarke inquired, not that it was any of her business.

"I don't even know." He rubbed his forehead, then shrugged carelessly. "I don't care."

 _So he's not a bad guy,_ Clarke deduced, _but he doesn't exactly seem to be Mr. Sensitive, either_. Maybe it was all just a front and he actually liked this Bree girl more than he let on. Some guys could be blind to their own feelings. Hell, it'd taken Finn until his junior year to realize he had a thing for her.

It didn't take more than a few minutes to get to Bellamy's workplace. Grounders, as it turned out, was short for Grounders Bar and Nightclub. Bellamy was muscled but a little too small to be a bouncer, so Clarke figured he was probably a bartender or DJ or something.

"Well, thanks," he said, getting out of the car.

"Yeah, no problem." Now she just had to try to find her way back home. "Do you need someone to come pick you up later then, or . . ."

"No, I'll find a ride home," he said, shutting the door. "Thanks, though." He smiled at her a bit, then hustled inside. And that was that.

Clarke looked around, trying to remember how many turns she'd taken to get here. It probably would have been smart to have him tell her the address of the Mount Weather complex before he left, just so that she could program it into her GPS. But she had a general idea of what direction she'd come from, so as long as she headed back that way, she figured she'd make it.

About to back out onto the street—which seemed like an impossible task given all this traffic—she glanced in her rearview mirror. And her eyes caught sight of something across the street, so she twisted around to get a better look at it.

There was a restaurant called Dropship. And in the window was a _Help Wanted_ sign.

Well. Any job was better than nothing.

...

It was nearly 10:00 by the time Finn got home. Clarke sat at the counter, eating away at the pizza she'd had delivered for the two of them. It was pretty cold now, and with no microwave to warm it up . . . well, whatever. Finn was one of those weirdos who preferred cold pizza to warm pizza anyway.

He had to slam his body against the door again to get it to open, but he didn't appear frustrated with it at all as he came inside with a big grin on his face. "Hey," he said. "You're still up."

"Yep." She'd been busy since dropping Bellamy off at the nightclub, productive. She'd gotten everything unpacked that she could, but there were some things that they were going to need shelves and tables for. And a couch. God, they needed a couch so badly. They needed so many things, including a mousetrap, because that pesky little critter had somehow escaped by the time she had gotten home.

"Did you have fun?" she asked him.

"Ah, you know." He shrugged and walked over to the refrigerator, opening it up like he expected there to be something in there. But when he caught a whiff of how bad it smelled, he quickly closed it again.

"I _don't_ know, actually," she told him. "I don't know your cousin all that well. What's he's like?"

"Cage? Oh, he's awesome," Finn boasted. "You'll like him."

Clarke sincerely hoped she would. They'd put a lot of faith in Finn's cousin when they'd decided to move out here. It was Cage who had planted the idea in Finn's head in the first place, Cage who promised to have a job lined up for him, Cage who had assured them that he would help them feel at home here no matter what.

"So you guys just hung out at his place then?" Clarke inquired.

"Yeah. Well, then he took me out for some drinks," Finn replied. "They didn't even card me. Guess I look old enough."

"Huh." Clarke wondered if _she_ looked twenty-one, or if she still looked like she was in high school.

"What'd you do?" Finn asked her.

"Oh, I, uh . . ." She looked around, wishing it looked like she'd done more. She really hadn't sat down much since returning home, but now here she was, sitting at the counter, stuffing her face with pizza, probably looking lazy as fuck. "I unpacked everything I could," she said, "and then I just . . ." She trailed off, debating whether or not she should tell him that she'd made her first friend—sort of—in New York. She definitely didn't want him to find out down the line, though, and think she was keeping something from him, so she told him the truth. "Well, I met our neighbor, and then I gave him a ride to work."

Finn frowned. "Some guy you don't even know?"

"Well . . . no." That just sounded stupid, and she wasn't a stupid person.

"Because this isn't Arkadia, Clarke," Finn cautioned. "You can't be so trusting with people here."

"I wasn't."

"So you gave a ride to a guy you don't know _or_ trust?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, when you say it like that . . ."

"You gotta be careful, Clarke," he warned.

"I was. I am," she insisted. "Look, he was harmless, and I had my pepper spray with me. You know, since I didn't have my boyfriend with me." She hadn't meant to say that last part out loud, but . . . well, there it was.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked.

"No." She really didn't want to fight, especially not their first night here, so she stood up and walked towards him, putting her hands on his chest, leaning into him. "No, I'm not mad. I'm just kinda . . . stressed, I think, because . . . we're here, great, but . . ." She looked around, feeling sort of overwhelmed by the emptiness. "We hardly have anything. We're starting from scratch here."

"We have a roof over our head," he pointed out. "We have each other. And I'm gonna start work soon."

"Hopefully I will, too," she said. "I already put in an application at this restaurant called Dropship."

"See? We'll be fine then," Finn said. "And I know it's kinda . . . sparse in here right now . . ."

"Understatement," she mumbled.

He rubbed his hands up and down her back and sides, almost like he was trying to smooth the tension out of her. "Cage said there's a thrift store a couple blocks north of here. We can go there tomorrow, get a whole bunch of stuff for cheap. And he's got some stuff he's willing to give us."

She breathed a sigh of relief, glad that they weren't completely alone here, at least. If Finn's cousin could start up his own advertising agency here, then surely she and Finn could be successful, too. Waitressing or whatever she ended up doing for work . . . it would just be a temporary job.

On the counter, her cell phone rang, and she recognized her mother's ringtone. Well, it'd only taken her twenty-two hours, but finally, she'd called. Clarke had a feeling it'd be a heated conversation, possibly full of accusations, and she really wasn't in the mood to deal with that right now. So she let the phone ring and kissed her boyfriend instead. She didn't intend to take it any further than kissing until he shoved his hands down the back of her jeans and pulled her hips into his, pressing her body against the slight bulge in his pants.

"Right here?" she asked.

"Why not?"

Well . . . it _was_ as good of place as any, she supposed, for their first time in their new apartment. It was pretty much either here or on the sleeping bag.

Finn moved at a brisk pace after that, unfastening his jeans and pushing them down along with his boxers. Clarke took her shirt off and reached behind her back to unclasp her bra, but before she could, he was spinning her around and urging her towards the counter again. She took off her jeans, stepping out of them, and barely had time to bend over and spread her legs before she heard him tear open the condom. He rolled it on quickly, grabbed her hips, and positioned himself behind her after pushing her panties to the side. Seconds later, he was inside her, and she was holding onto the edge of the counter when he started moving insistently right from the start.

"Yeah," he growled, and his voice got lower the way it always did when he fucked her. He didn't bother to take things slow, which, she supposed, was fine, because she was tired and didn't exactly have the energy for some long, drawn-out lovemaking tonight anyway. The downside of such a quickie, of course, was that, even though he came within a couple minutes, she was left hanging.

A few hours later, after Finn had polished off the rest of the pizza and she'd taken her first bath in her new bathroom, they lay in their jumbo sleeping bag together. Finn was on his side, facing her, sleeping soundly, but Clarke couldn't quite nod off. She fell asleep for a few minutes here, a few minutes there, then always woke up again. Not because she wasn't tired—no, she _definitely_ was. But because she wasn't used to not sleeping in a bed. A queen-sized bed, to be exact. She wasn't used to this room, wasn't used to all the sounds she could hear outside: sirens, music, traffic, voices.

As she lay there on her back, trying to fall asleep during what she could only assume to be about 3:00 a.m., she heard new sounds join the fray. And those sounds were coming from next door. Sounded like Bellamy and his girlfriend again, except they weren't fighting this time. Quite the opposite, actually. Now, it seemed like they were _making up_. She heard lots of moaning and groaning and gasping and grunting. She heard a mattress squeaking and a headboard hitting the wall. How Finn slept through it all was a mystery.

Clarke's eyes opened, and she couldn't help but . . . listen. It was hard not to when that Bree girl was shouting things like, "Oh, fuck yes!" and "Fuck, Bellamy! Put it in me."

 _Great,_ Clarke thought. Now, she was going to get to try to fall asleep to a symphony of sex sounds tonight.

She pressed her pillow up over her ears, trying to muffle the noises, but she still heard more than she wanted to. Whatever problems Bellamy and his girlfriend had, whatever they'd been fighting about, they sure had gotten over it fast.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

It wasn't a particularly restful night of sleep, but Clarke got _some_ sleep that night nonetheless. It had taken a while for everything—including her mind—to quiet down so she could nod off for a couple of hours, and a sleeping bag was definitely a poor substitute for a bed; but getting to cuddle up next to Finn didn't suck. He kept her warm and made her feel more comfortable than she would have if she'd been lying there alone.

When she woke up, however, she actually _was_ alone. Finn had scribbled down a note on the back of the receipt from last night's pizza: _Running some errands. Be back later. Love you,_ it read. She sincerely hoped those errands he was running included grocery shopping, because even after the pizza last night, her stomach was growling with hunger.

She got up and treaded across the hallway into the bathroom to do her morning business and brush her teeth. Her hair was a bit messy after drying in bed—or rather, in sleeping bag—last night, so she ran a comb through it and put it up in a ponytail. She made no effort to change out of her sweatpants and Finn's oversized t-shirt, though, because really, it wasn't like she had plans to go anywhere today. So it was totally fine to keep wearing what she'd slept in.

Once she finished up in the bathroom, she really wanted to head out onto the balcony and see what the city looked like in the daytime, so she went back into the bedroom, pulled the curtain covering the sliding door back, and then opened the door and stepped outside. The view . . . still wasn't great. The houses across the street still left a lot to be desired, and air still didn't smell the freshest. But as she gripped the balcony and looked down at the street, she saw kids scampering to school this morning, a woman jogging, and a very large man walking his toy-sized dog. For some reason, seeing all of those things made her feel a little better about this neighborhood. Because none of them looked bad.

When she glanced to her left, she saw someone else, too, the only someone in New York City whose name she actually knew. Bellamy stood not that far away on his own balcony in worn out jeans and a white t-shirt, his thick, dark hair blowing in the breeze. He was smoking a cigarette and didn't seem to notice her.

"Hello," she greeted softly.

He glanced over at her, took his cigarette out of his mouth, and blew smoke into the air. "Hey," he said. And then, almost as an afterthought, he tacked on, "Clarke."

She smiled a bit, glad that he remembered her name, too. "So I guess you found a ride home from work last night."

"Yep," he said, putting out his cigarette in an ashtray he'd set on his railing. "Thanks again for gettin' me there."

"No problem." She knew helping one's neighbor was kind of a stereotypical small town thing, but . . . surely she could still do that kind of thing here, too, as long as she was careful.

"So it sounded like . . . like you and your girlfriend made up," she remarked, unable to not say anything about it.

"Yeah," he confirmed, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry about that. My bed's right up against the wall. We'll try not to-"

"Oh, no, I'm not trying to complain or anything," she said. "It's fine." Hell, if his bed was right on the other side of her bedroom wall, he'd probably hear an earful from her and Finn at some point, too. Or at least Finn. She usually managed to keep herself pretty quiet when they were doing it.

"So you're not like a regular neighbor then. You're a cool neighbor?" Bellamy concluded.

She was pretty sure he'd just referenced a line from _Mean Girls,_ either intentionally or unintentionally, so she laughed a little and nodded. "Yes, I'm very cool." Just saying that sounded so _un_ cool, though, that she cringed inwardly.

"Alright," he said, opening up his carton of cigarettes, he held one out, offering, "Want one?"

"Oh, no thanks," she declined. Her mother, being a doctor, had made her take a solemn oath at the ripe old age of seven to _never_ start smoking, and given the tremendous health hazard it was, she had no desire to ever start. "You really shouldn't do that," she told him, though of course that couldn't be new information to him. "It's bad for you."

"I do a lot of things a lot of things that are bad for me," he muttered, putting the new cigarette between his lips.

"Like Bree?" she guessed.

He chuckled and didn't even bother to deny it. "Yeah, pretty much." He lit his new cigarette and kept smoking away, and Clarke really didn't want to stand around and inhale any of that, so she said, "See you later," and slipped back inside.

"See ya," he said.

She shut the door, leaving the curtain open to let the sunlight in, but a dark cloud immediately descended over her when she heard her phone ringing out from the kitchen again. And once again, it was her mother's ringtone. There was no avoiding it this time. She'd been expecting—waiting for, even—her mother's call, and after ignoring it last night, she owed it to the woman who had given birth to her to talk to her today.

She braced herself as she walked out into the hallway and into the kitchen, taking a few steadying breaths before picking up the phone. "Hi, Mom," she answered nervously.

" _Clarke_ ," her mother, Abby, said emphatically. "Thank God. You don't know how close I was to getting on a plane and flying out there. You had me so worried."

"Didn't you see my note?" Clarke asked.

"Yes, I saw your note," her mother snarled. "How nice of you to inform me that you're packing up and moving across the country on the same pieces of paper I use for my grocery lists, by the way. And it was so very considerate of you to sneak off in the middle of the night without so much as even saying goodbye."

"I'm sorry," Clarke apologized. "We just decided about a month ago that we were gonna leave and-"

"A month?" her mom cut in, her voice high-pitched with hysteria. "You've been plotting this for a month?"

"We weren't _plotting_ anything," Clarke corrected adamantly. The goal was not to hurt anyone here, just to get a fresh start.

"Why wouldn't you even tell me?" her mother demanded.

"Because I knew you'd try to talk me out of it."

"You're damn right I would!" Abby shrieked. "You're eighteen years old, Clarke. You've never been out on your own before."

"I'm not on my own," Clarke reminded her. "I'm with Finn."

"Oh, what a comfort."

Clarke frowned. Her mom liked Finn, so she'd been expecting her to feel relieved that at least they were together. But apparently now she liked Finn a lot less.

"Where are you now?" her mother asked.

"In New York City," Clarke replied.

"Already?"

"We just made one long drive. We have an apartment. We're getting settled in. It's looking . . ." Clarke glanced around the empty space, once again noticing the mouse as its tail disappeared through the hole in the wall. "Really cozy," she lied, hoping she sounded convincing.

"When are you coming home?" her mother growled.

 _Home?_ Clarke thought. Could Arkadia even be called that anymore? No, not really. This was home now. Or . . . it would be. "We're not coming home," she informed her mother bluntly. "We came here to start over, and that's exactly what we're gonna do."

"Oh, you can't be serious," her mother grumbled. Clarke could just imagine her right now, hunched over the kitchen table, holding her head in her free hand. "Stop the indulgent behavior, Clarke, and come back here where you belong."

But that was just the thing, wasn't it? She didn't feel like she belonged there. Not anymore. And there was nothing indulgent about doing what she felt was best for herself. "I'm sorry," she apologized again. "I'm staying here."

She heard something else on the other end of the call then. Not anger or frustration, but . . . sadness. Her mom was sad. She was sniffing back tears. "Please, Clarke," she begged.

And this was exactly why Clarke had been dreading talking to her mom. Because, despite their disagreements, of which there had been many these past few months, she was still her _mom_. She still loved her, and she didn't want to hurt her. They'd both endured enough hurt these past few months.

Thankfully, another call interrupted the conversation. Clarke glanced down at the number on the screen and didn't recognize it at all. And it wasn't an Arkadia area code, so maybe the restaurant she'd applied at last night was calling her back. "Mom, I gotta go," she said quickly. "I'll . . . talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Clarke . . ."

She ended the call and switched over to the other one. "Hello?"

"Clarke Griffin?"

"Yes?" She crossed her fingers, hoping for the best.

"This is Kim. I'm the manager at Dropship. I got your application yesterday. Are you free to come in today?"

"Uh, yes, absolutely," Clarke replied eagerly. Perfect. Now she didn't have to just sit around and wait for Finn to get home.

"Great. Can you be here by 10:00?"

Clarke wasn't even sure what time it was, but if the boss wanted her there at 10:00, she'd be there at 9:50. Unless she got turned around on these crowded city streets. "Sure," she said. "I'll see you then."

"Great." The manager ended the call abruptly, and Clarke checked the time on her phone. 9:30. Time to get ready fast.

Naturally, Clarke assumed she was being called in for an interview, so she put on the nicest clothes she'd packed: a pair of black slacks and a nice white shirt with a grey jacket over it. The jacket was hot, though, especially since it was hot outside, and when she got to Dropship, it quickly became apparent to her that she hadn't had to dress up at all. The manager introduced herself quickly and didn't seem interested in sitting down for a formal interview. She told Clarke to follow her around and asked her questions in between preparing food in the back and helping clear tables in the front. It looked like the restaurant was severely understaffed.

"You ever waited tables before?" she asked Clarke.

"Um, no," Clarke admitted, "but I did work at a drive-in movie theater this summer, so I feel confident when it comes to my customer service and my people skills."

"Drive-in movie theater?" the manager cut in. "They still have those?"

"Um . . . some places, yeah." Clarke wasn't about to tell her that Arkadia was one of those places. She didn't want this woman to know that she was a small town girl in the big city for the first time. She didn't want her to think that she'd get overwhelmed and not be able to handle things here.

"When can you start?" the manager asked as she cleared plates and glasses off a disgustingly messy table.

"As soon as possible," Clarke answered.

"Today?"

Her eyebrows shot upward because . . . well, that was _definitely_ as soon as possible. "Yeah," she said. "Yes. Just tell me what I need to do."

"I'm gonna have you stick with Emori today. She'll show you the ropes," the manager said. Then she hollered, "Emori!" and a few seconds later, a girl with long dark hair came out from the back. She looked tired and seemed to know exactly why she'd been summoned.

"You got this?" the manager asked her.

The girl—Emori—nodded wordlessly, and the manager left them alone as she carried all the dirty dishes back into the kitchen.

"Shouldn't have worn white," Emori said, motioning to Clarke's top. "It's gonna get dirty."

"I could run home and change," Clarke offered.

Emori shook her head. "We got spare uniforms in the back. Come on." She motioned for Clarke to follow her as she led her way into a room marked _Employees Only_. So Clarke took that to mean she was an employee now. She'd probably have to sign some stuff later to make it official, but as long as she performed decently, it seemed like the job was hers.

The uniform was super flattering on Emori, whose skin wasn't as pale as Clarke's and who didn't have as many curves to account for. But Clarke's black shirt showed way too much cleavage, and her grey skirt was too tight. Plus, they had to wear black tights, and those were just so damn uncomfortable. Emori promised her they'd get her something that fit better at some point but told her to just deal with it for today. "The cleavage won't hurt when it comes to tips," she pointed out.

No, it probably wouldn't.

Training with Emori wasn't easy. The girl had clearly been working there for years—three years, Clarke eventually found out—and she knew that place and that job like the back of her hand. She showed Clarke how to work the register so quickly that, when it came time for Clarke to try it on her own, she was _completely_ clueless on what to do. Emori could record a customer's order in a matter of seconds, but it took Clarke about five minutes to make sure she had everything straight. And when they asked Emori questions about the items on the menu, she knew the answers, but Clarke just stood there and looked at people with this ditzy smile on her face, because she didn't know anything.

"You gotta loosen up," Emori told her. "Be more sociable. Or at least fake it like I do." She plastered a smile on her face as they approached the next table and said cheerily, "Hi, welcome to Dropship. I'm Emori. I'll be your server today. Can I start you out with something to drink?"

Clarke got a little better as the day wore on, but all in all, it was a tiring experience. Her feet and her back were aching once it was time to go home, and since she was just in training, all the tips they collected were technically Emori's. They weren't exactly huge tips, either. Some people didn't leave any money on the table at all. Cheapskates.

"Here, you earned it," Emori said, giving her half the money. "I mean, you weren't _great_ , but . . . you'll get better."

Clarke gratefully took the cash and said, "Thank you." Now at least she had some money to spend on groceries. And that mouse trap.

Feeling like she needed to get dressed in something more comfortable before she ventured out and tried to find the nearest Walmart, Clarke went back to Mount Weather after she finished up for the day. When she walked inside, she was surprised to find her apartment looking . . . much more like an actual apartment. There was a blue couch in the living room now, along with a coffee table in front of it. And against the opposing wall was a TV. Not a fancy one by any means—it was more of a tin box than a flat-screen or anything like that, but it was on and working. And there was a desk in the corner with nothing on it yet.

"Finn?" she called.

She heard laughter coming from the bedroom, and seconds later, Finn and a man she'd only seen in Instagram pictures before came out. _Cage_ , she recognized. The cousin. God, he was creepy looking. Dark hair, angular jaw, pale skin . . . he looked like a vampire.

"Hey, baby," Finn said, stopping to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Well, what do you think?"

"I think . . . it looks great," she said, feeling like she might whip out of her phone and take a few pictures just to send to her mom, just to _prove_ that, yes, they could really do this.

"Hey, Clarke," Cage said, extending his hand in greeting. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Yeah, you, too," she said.

"Cage helped me out today," Finn explained. "We went to the thrift store, and then he helped me move all this stuff in."

"That couch used to be mine, by the way," Cage said. "It's comfortable."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll get plenty of use out of it," Finn joked, grinning mischievously.

"Stop," she said, playfully whacking his shoulder. Turning her focus back to Cage, she said, "Well, thank you for all the help. A little furniture makes a world of difference."

"Oh, it's not just furniture," Finn said. "We got some clothes, too. And . . ." He surveyed her outfit and noted, "So did you, apparently."

"Oh." She realized she was still dressed in the Dropship uniform and told him, "I got a job. Waitressing."

"That's great," he said, giving her another kiss, one on the lips this time.

"Seems like you guys are settling right in," Cage remarked. "Finn, I was gonna invite you out with the crew tonight, but you guys probably just wanna spend some time together."

Clarke smiled, thinking that sounded nice. They could curl up on the couch together and just watch some TV . . .

"Where you goin'?" Finn asked.

Clarke was . . . a bit taken aback. He _wanted_ to go out again tonight? After already going out last night? After being gone all day? Didn't he want to spend _any_ time with her?

"This bar down on 5th Street," Cage replied. "You can come, too, Clarke, but it's kind of my whole work crew. I thought it might be good for Finn to meet some of the people he's gonna be clocking all these hours with."

"Yeah, it would be," Finn agreed. Turning to Clarke, he said, "You don't mind, right?"

Did she _mind_? Well . . . it kind of bummed her out, but she understood that it was important for Finn to start networking with his coworkers or his colleagues or whatever they'd be called. "Well, can you stay home tomorrow night?" she asked. "I feel like, ever since we've gotten here, I barely see you."

"I know. I'm sorry," he apologized. "Tomorrow night, you and me. I'll be here."

"You promise?"

"I promise." With one more kiss, he followed Cage out the door.

"Later, Clarke," Cage called.

"Later." How much later . . . she wasn't sure. Last night had been 10:00. If there was a whole group of people going out, then tonight would probably be . . . what, at least 11:00? Maybe midnight?

She sighed heavily, determined not to be too upset about it. Today had been a good day, all in all. Exhausting, sure, but things were looking up. They had furniture now, and she had a job. The things they were needing to happen were happening quickly, and for that, she felt grateful.

When she peeked in the bedroom, she felt even _more_ grateful. Because there was a double bed in there now, no longer just a sleeping bag. And the guys had gotten a dresser today, too. She pulled open the top drawer and saw a whole bunch of shirts for Finn, some of which had stains on them and some that smelled kind of funky. But she could fix that.

...

 _Fucking laundry_ , Bellamy thought as he traipsed down the first floor hallway with a heaping laundry basket in his arms. He hated doing laundry, hating cleaning in general. But he had to do it. Even though it was his one night off work this week, he still had plenty of things to do to keep him busy. Hopefully he could get it done fast and go out later, though, do something fun. And then he could call Bree up later and do some _one_ fun.

When he pushed open the door to the laundry room, he noticed some familiar wavy, blonde hair. That Clarke girl stood at one of the washers, loading a whole mountain of clothes into it. Unlike him, she didn't have a laundry basket, though, so she just had all the clothes piled on top of the adjacent dryer.

"Hey," he greeted.

Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him a bit and echoed, "Hey," in response.

Damn, she looked kind of cute. She had on pink shorts that were . . . pretty short, and a white fitted t-shirt that showed off the gifts the good lord had given her. She reminded him of what Bree looked like when she didn't cake on so much makeup and when she didn't try so hard to dress up and look hot.

"Looks like we had the same idea," she said, inspecting every garment of clothing before she put them in the washer.

"Yep." He set his basket down on the floor and opened up the washer next to hers, but he got distracted from loading up his own laundry when he took a closer look at hers. Some of those shirts were . . . big. Way too big for her. They definitely belonged to a guy and . . . well, that was certainly a buzzkill if Clarke had a boyfriend.

"I can't believe it cost three dollars to do a load of laundry here," she remarked, dropping several pairs of socks into the washer.

"How much would it have cost in Kansas?" he asked her.

"I don't know. Like seventy-five cents."

He sighed, bending down to grab a hefty handful of his shirts and jeans out of his basket. "Yeah, everything's more expensive in the city."

" _Way_ more expensive," she emphasized. "But oh, well. Gotta do it."

When he saw that she was about to put a red shirt in with all those paler colors, he grabbed it from her and said, "Don't do that. Unless you wanna turn everything in there pink."

Looking down at her feet, she blushed with embarrassment. "Right."

"I got a load of darks here," he said. "You can put it in mine." He dropped in the red shirt and asked, "Anything else?"

"Um . . ." She took another piece of red fabric out of her clothing pile, but this one was . . . much smaller. Silkier. Red underwear.

Laughing a little, he urged, "Go ahead." Some of the crap he was washing was Bree's anyway. It was no big deal.

"Thanks," she said, subtly dropping the panties in. "Do you have anything you need to put in mine?"

"No, I should be alright," he said, surveying his clothing. Lots of blacks and blues and darker greys. Nothing that would get turned pink. He picked up his whole basket and dumped the rest of it in, then reached up onto the shelf above the machine and grabbed some detergent. He shook it a bit to see how much was left, and it didn't seem like a lot. So he just used enough to get by, saving the rest for her.

"So how's your first full day in New York treated you?" he asked, closing the lid.

"How'd you know it was my first full day?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Lucky guess." She just had that vibe that a lot of girls had when they first came here, the innocent kind.

"It's been good," she said, sliding the rest of her clothes off the dryer and into her washer. "Got some furniture in my place now. And I got a job."

"Oh, yeah?" he said as he twisted the washer nob to all his preferred settings. "Where?"

"Right across from where you work, actually," she replied, taking the detergent from him when he handed it to her.

"Dropship?"

"Mmm-hmm." She drizzled the remainder of the detergent on top of her clothes. "Waitressing."

Starting his washer, he didn't want to burst her bubble, but . . . that really wasn't much of a job. There was a reason why so many people quit and why they were _always_ hiring. The boss was a bitch, and the pay was crap. She wouldn't be so excited about it once she'd been there a couple days.

"My friend's girlfriend Emori works there," he said, wondering how many times he'd heard her grumble about how much she hated it.

"Oh, yeah, she was the one who trained me today."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Clarke smiled. "She was . . . nice."

"She was?" He'd known Emori for about a year now. She was stressed a lot of the time, which led her to be cranky a lot. Not usually _nice_ , but not as unbearable as Bree could be, either.

"Well, she was _sorta_ nice," Clarke amended. She started up her washer, too, and put the detergent back up on the shelf Bellamy had gotten it from. Even though there couldn't be much, if anything, left.

"It's kind of a crap job," Bellamy informed her. "I mean, not just Dropship, but waiting tables in general. You ever done it before?"

"No," she admitted.

"I did it for three years before I started bartending," he informed her. "It sucks. The customers are _always_ right, except sometimes they're not always right. Sometimes they're just jackasses. And a lot of 'em don't tip."

"Yeah, I sensed that," she said. "But it's okay. It's just a temporary job. And my boyfriend, Finn . . . he has work lined up, so . . ."

 _Oh,_ he thought. _Finn_. Hopefully Finn had a decent job lined up, because Clarke's job wasn't going to be enough for them to get by. "What's he gonna do?" he asked.

"He's gonna work at his cousin's advertising agency," she explained. "He's a photographer, so . . . I guess he's gonna be part of the creative team or something."

"Huh." Nepotism at its finest then. Bellamy wondered what kind of job he could have been working by now if he'd known someone in this city prior to moving here.

"Yeah, it's gonna be good," Clarke predicted. "And I'm sure waitressing's not gonna be as bad as you make it sound."

"Oh, you say that now." He knew Emori would have quit her job a long time ago if she'd been able to afford it, but she couldn't, so . . . she stayed.

"Well, maybe it's not as _thrilling_ as bartending," she said, a slight teasing tone in her voice, "but I'll be fine."

He stood there, hand on the washer as it roared and rumbled, hoping that was true. She walked out of the laundry room, and he took one quick look at her undeniable figure as it disappeared around the corner.

So his cute little neighbor girl was a waitress now. At a restaurant she'd soon come to hate. At least she was working there and not at Grounders, though. There were definitely worse jobs a girl like Clarke could have gotten.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

Clarke was most definitely _not fine_ her first day fending for herself at Dropship. Not only did her uniform still not fit properly, but she was in _way_ over her head without Emori there to help her through everything. Emori had the day off, so it was just Clarke, another waitress, and Kim, the manager, who seemed to be eyeing her like a hawk, especially whenever she did something to mess up. And unfortunately, she messed up a lot.

First she screwed up one man's order and brought him pancakes when he'd asked for waffles. Then she couldn't answer a woman's question about what the special for the day was, so Kim had to jump in and help. Those incidents were only the tip of the iceberg, though, because it only got worse after that. Around noon, she dropped a bowl of soup, so she had to clean that up. Then she mistakenly started her lunch break fifteen minutes before she was supposed to and got a lecture as a result of it. Even though she tried to start working again fifteen minutes before she was supposed to as a way of making up for lost time, Kim just glared at her and didn't seem very forgiving.

Some of the worst customers came in during the afternoon. There were crying babies and annoying toddlers who decided it'd be more fun to color on the table than on the coloring pages she'd so generously provided with their menus. One kid ate too much and threw up on her shoes, so that was disgusting. And then there was the couple who could not be satisfied. The man complained that she was taking too long with their order, and the woman complained incessantly about her food once it came. First her spaghetti didn't have enough sauce on it, so Clarke took it back to the kitchen and had them pour on another layer of marinara. But when she brought it back, suddenly it was no longer warm enough, so she had to go heat it up again. And just when she was thinking the third time might be the charm, the woman ushered her back to the table and said, "Ma'am? There's a hair in my pasta. I'd like a new dish, please."

It took every ounce of willpower for Clarke to keep her helpful, happy smile in place and not just break down and cry when she said that.

But the _worst_ was when two gruff trucker types moseyed on in. They reminded her the older men back home, except the men back home all knew her and knew her family, and none of them would have dared to slap her on the ass as she carried their plates away. These two guys didn't even hesitate to do that. She froze momentarily, startled, and they just laughed. As if it were funny.

At the end of the day, she hadn't collected as many tips as she would have liked, but at least she'd clocked in her first full day of work and survived. She had enough cash on hand to go grocery shopping, and since Finn _still_ hadn't picked up that mouse trap the way she'd asked him to, she'd have to find somewhere to buy that, too.

When she returned home early that evening, she felt wiped for energy, but her one saving grace was that she had an evening with her boyfriend to look forward to. "Finn?" she called as she shut the door and took off the annoying high heels she was forced to wear at Dropship. Really, why would any restaurant require the waitresses to wear high heels? It was cruel and unusual punishment on her feet.

Finn didn't respond, so she set her grocery sack down on the counter and went into the bedroom to check for him. He wasn't in there, and the bathroom was dark, so . . . he wasn't home yet, she supposed. It would have been nice if he'd already been there, if maybe he'd have started dinner, even. But now maybe she could have a little something cooking for him when he got home.

Once she had changed into something more comfortable _and_ set out the mouse trap, she turned on the TV for the sake of background noise and got to work on dinner. Their options were limited. It was pretty much just pasta or . . . well, pasta. Cooking was not her area of expertise, but she could do basic meals. And macaroni and cheese out of the box was about as basic as it came. She'd picked up a family-sized box at the store, figuring it'd be enough for the two of them.

By 6:30, Finn still wasn't home yet, but the macaroni was boiled, so she drained it in the sink—hard to do without a strainer—and started mixing in the cheese sauce and butter. And milk. Except she didn't _have_ any milk. And she realized that a little bit too late, because the cheese and butter were already in the bowl, waiting to be mixed.

"Crap," she muttered, checking the refrigerator—which was smelling slightly better thanks to some baking soda—just to see if Finn had miraculously gone and gotten some milk. But he hadn't. Their fridge was still relatively empty. No milk in sight, which meant that her macaroni was in jeopardy of not tasting the way it should.

 _Dammit,_ she thought. It was a simple meal, so simple even a monkey could make it, yet she'd gone and screwed it up. Maybe she could just put in some extra butter and hope it still tasted decent?

Inspiration struck when she heard noise next door. Not substantial noise or anything. Just sounded like Bellamy was home, moving around his apartment.

 _Bellamy,_ she realized. Of course. He seemed way more self-sufficient than she was. Surely he'd have some milk she could borrow.

She scampered out into the hall and hesitantly knocked on his door, embarrassed to have to do this. Seriously, what kind of adult was she that she went to the store and bought everything she needed for macaroni except the freaking milk? She just wasn't used to grocery shopping or laundry or any of these domestic things.

When Bellamy opened the door, he seemed a little surprised to see her standing there. "Hey," he said. "What's up?"

 _What's up is that I'm an idiot_ , she thought, but she held that in. "I was just wondering if I could borrow some milk," she blurted.

He raised a curious eyebrow.

"What?" she said. "Do people not borrow milk in New York City?"

"No, you can borrow milk," he said. "It's just . . ." He took a few steps back, chuckling lightly, shaking his head. "You're kinda weird, Clarke."

She stood in the doorway, waiting while he made his way to his refrigerator. "I'm making macaroni and cheese," she tried to explain.

"Well, you do need milk for that." He brought her a half gallon that was nearly still full and said, "Listen, I gotta get to work, but just come put that back and then lock my door when you're done, alright?"

"Okay," she said. "Thanks."

"Least I could do." He grinned at her and slid past her as he walked down the hallway.

As it turned out, she didn't have a measuring cup, either, so how much milk to add to the macaroni was really just a guess. She stirred it and the rest of the ingredients in, taste-testing a couple noodles before she decided she was done. They still didn't have a microwave, so hopefully Finn came home soon. Otherwise they'd be eating cold macaroni and cheese.

She brought the milk back over to Bellamy's apartment, glimpsing the inside of it for the first time. It was a lot different than hers. Smaller, actually. It was pretty much just one room, like a studio apartment or something. He had a kitchen area just like she did, except rather than having a counter island, he had a small round table with three chairs set out around it. His bed was right where he'd said it would be, up against the wall, but it was bigger than her and Finn's double bed was. Down at the foot of it was an old brown couch, with stuffing coming out of some of the cushions and an LSU Tigers blanket draped over the back of it. He had a TV hooked up on the wall, where he could either lie on the couch or in bed and watch it, and it was a fairly large TV, too. So apparently Bellamy had his priorities.

She put the milk back in the refrigerator, noticing that he had two things hung up onto the front of it with magnets. One was a work schedule, and he was scheduled for every night but one this week. The other was a photo of him with a dark-haired girl, out on a boat, both of them in swimwear. The girl looked younger than him, too young to be his girlfriend so . . . sister, she assumed? It was hard to tell if they looked alike at all, because in the picture, the girl's face was obscured by obnoxiously large black sunglasses. He had his arm around her, though, and they were both smiling, and they kind of had similar smiles.

Clarke looked around a little bit more, not trying to be nosy or anything, but . . . Bellamy was one of the few people she knew in this city, and besides Emori, he was the only person she'd talked to at all. But she still didn't really know much about him. They were neighbors, but it wasn't like they were friends or anything yet.

On his bedside table was a box of condoms—nearly empty—and a carton of cigarettes. Also nearly empty. His ashtray was on the end table next to the couch, and there were a few clothing items strewn about the floor.

Just as she was about to turn and leave, the door swung open, and in came a girl Clarke didn't recognize. She had long blonde hair, way too much makeup on her face, and was wearing a sparkly blue dress that rode up so high on her thighs, it left nothing to the imagination.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes at Clarke.

Even though she didn't recognize the girl, Clarke recognized the voice. She'd heard it telling Bellamy to 'go harder' last night. "Oh, hi," she said. "You must be Bree. I'm Clarke; I live next door."

Rather than being friendly, Bree crossed her arms over her chest and continued to glare. "If you live next door, what the hell are you doing _here_?" she snarled.

"Oh, just putting some milk back," Clarke explained. "I had to borrow some, and Bellamy was nice enough to-"

"Yeah, Bellamy's _really_ nice," Bree cut in, rolling her eyes. She whirled around and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

 _Oh, shit,_ Clarke thought, biting her lower lip. Seeing another girl in Bellamy's apartment had probably just given Bree the wrong idea.

...

Bellamy barely had enough gas in his car to make it to work, but he got there. It was running on empty, though, so hopefully he'd have enough to get home. Even as a guy who was plenty capable of defending himself, he hated walking the streets of this neighborhood at night.

His friend and fellow bartender, Murphy, stood outside the building when he got there, smoking, and when Bellamy got out of the guitar, Murphy announced, "Hey, Niylah showed up, so I don't think you'll have to work tonight after all."

"Are you kidding?" Bellamy groaned. He'd pulled himself out of an epic nap just to get here on time. Niylah was the flakiest bartender, though. He covered for her all the time, only because . . . hey, it was more money in his pocket.

Sidling up next to Murphy, he leaned back against the building, motioning for his friend to hand him a cigarette. He took his lighter out of his pocket, lit it up, and started puffing away, wishing he hadn't started back up again. He'd gone two months this summer without one, but audition season had come and gone, and the stress of not having landed a big part had settled back in, just like it always did. And then he'd started smoking again.

His eyes settled on the restaurant across the street, and he thought of Clarke working there today, wondering how it'd gone for her. If he hadn't been in such a hurry to leave tonight, he would have asked about it. "Did Emori tell you about the new girl at Dropship?" he questioned Murphy.

Murphy tossed the remainder of his cigarette down on the ground and put it out with his foot. "Emori doesn't really talk about work once she gets home," he said. "Why?"

Bellamy shrugged. "No reason. New girl's just my new neighbor. That's all."

"New neighbor, huh?" Murphy grinned. "Is she hot?"

"Yeah," Bellamy answered. Clarke's body was ridiculous, and she had one hell of a pretty smile. "Ah, doesn't matter, though. She's got a boyfriend."

"So?"

He shrugged, just not really into that whole sort of thing. Yeah, he'd slept with some chicks who were in relationships before, but usually he found out they had boyfriends _after_ he'd slept with them. Usually. It was really just more hassle than it was worth to get involved with someone who was already involved, no matter how cute she was.

"Speaking of girls who have boyfriends . . ." Murphy trailed off, motioning to a familiar black car as it whipped into an empty parking space across the street. Bellamy knew it was Bree before she even got out.

"I'm not her boyfriend," he mumbled, although considering how long they'd been sleeping together—about four months now—the line between casual sex and a relationship was getting blurry. Or at least it was to her. Bree was getting very clingy, and even though he kept reminding her that what they were doing wasn't anything serious, she seemed to think that it was.

" _Bellamy,_ " she growled, stomping across the street in her high heels once there was a break in traffic. "What the hell do you think you're doing, huh?"

"Smoking," he replied simply.

Flinging her hands out, she pushed on his shoulders, causing his head to hit the wall. "You think you can play me, huh?" she shrieked. "You think you can cheat on me with some other blonde girl and I won't find out?"

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" he shouted back. Yeah, he'd slept with a few other girls these past few months, but Bree knew about all of them and always came back for more anyway.

"I went to your apartment and met _Clarke_ ," she ground out, her voice dripping with disdain when she said that name. "You know what she looks like? A pathetic, useless, knock-off version of me."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he muttered, grabbing Murphy's arm to stop him from slinking away. If Bree murdered him, he wanted there to be a witness.

"You know what? I don't care," she decided adamantly. "We're through."

"Fine."

"We're fucking _through_."

"Great."

"So you can say goodbye to this." She motioned grandly to her body, as if she were the hottest girl who'd ever lived.

"Goodbye," he said, not about to lose sleep over it. There were plenty of sexy girls in New York. He could hook up with someone else tonight if he wanted to.

"Ugh!" Snorting in disbelief, she spun around and marched back across the street, taking such heavy, determined steps that the heel of her shoe broke. "Go fuck your fucking little whore, Bellamy! See if I care!" she shouted. "Don't even talk to me again!"

"Alright!" he called back, waving goodbye to her. Not talking to Bree Barrett for the rest of time sounded fine to him.

Beside him, Murphy just laughed.

...

The macaroni got cold fast, so Clarke ate her dinner by herself while it was still at least somewhat warm, and she saved the rest for Finn. At 7:00, he still wasn't home, and when she texted him, he just texted back that he'd be home soon. But what did that mean? 7:30? 8:00? Either way, it didn't feel like she was getting to spend the night with him the way he'd promised.

She sat on the couch, watching but not really watching some un-funny sitcom on TV, and directed most attention to her phone. Her friends' social media accounts were still blowing up with all things college-themed. They'd sent her Snaps and pictures of all sorts of things she wasn't experiencing and couldn't relate to, and Maya even sent her a text at one point saying, _Is it true you're in NY? Call me._

Clarke figured Maya must have heard it through the grapevine. Undoubtedly, Clarke's mom had told Marcus Kane, and then Kane had probably told everyone who worked at the school, and word just got around. Like it _always_ did in a small town. Maya and Jasper and Monty weren't _in_ that small town anymore, but they were still associated with it. So of course they'd found out.

Just as she was about to call Maya and clue her in on what she and Finn had been up to these past few days, she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. She ran to the door, hoping it was her boyfriend, but when she threw open the door, he was nowhere to be seen. Bellamy was, though. He had his key in his lock and had just pushed open his door.

"Back already?" she asked him.

"Yeah, I didn't end up havin' to work," he said, pocketing his keys. "Hey, you didn't happen to run into Bree tonight, did you?"

Clarke cringed, feeling really bad that she might have inadvertently caused more problems for a relationship that already seemed pretty turbulent. "Yeah," she confessed. "I was putting the milk back, and then she came over and just . . . I don't know, I guess she _assumed_. . ."

"It's fine," Bellamy assured her quickly. "She's a drama queen. That's what she does."

"Is she mad at you?"

Bellamy grunted. "Oh, yeah. She followed me to work so she could break up with me."

"Oh god." She winced, feeling _so_ guilty. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"Clarke, it's fine," Bellamy reiterated. "I really don't care."

"You don't?"

"No." He started to head inside, then came back out again and asked, "How'd your macaroni turn out anyway?"

Macaroni? He and his girlfriend had just broken up and he was wondering about her macaroni? "Um, good, actually," she responded.

"Well, then as long as it turned out, that's all that matters." He grinned at her before disappearing inside his apartment and shutting the door.

Clarke laughed a little, a bit taken aback by that reaction. But it was a good thing, she supposed, that if she'd been an unintentional homewrecker, she'd been one to a relationship that had already been wrecked to begin with. Bellamy didn't seem too distraught by any of this, so she wasn't going to lose sleep over it, either.

For twenty more minutes, she lounged around on the couch by herself, lost in social media, spending _way_ too much time wondering what Monty meant in his latest tweet when he said he was stoked that his chemistry class was only a 'TR class.' What did TR mean? Trimester? Tuesday/Thursday? Was R Kansas State's abbreviation for Thursday?

She felt so out of the loop.

When Finn got home, she didn't even hear him come in, so she didn't jump off the couch to go greet him. He made a beeline straight for the kitchen, though, and peered over the stove. "Ooh, macaroni and cheese, huh?" he said, taking a bite. He seemed surprised that it was so cold.

"I made it like an hour ago," she informed him.

"Still good," he said, taking another quick bite. He kicked his shoes off and came towards her, lifting up her legs so he could flop down on the couch. "Sorry I didn't get home sooner," he apologized. "It was my first real day of work today."

She sat up, frowning. "We were supposed to have a night together."

"We still can," he said, rubbing her legs. "It's early."

She scooted closer, thinking that . . . it wasn't so early. In fact, she was feeling like she could fall asleep within the next hour. That didn't give her and Finn much time to be . . . her and Finn.

"So what'd you do today?" she asked him.

"Got right to work," he said. "Sat down with everyone on the creative team, started brainstorming ideas for this photoshoot for this new brand of flavored water."

"Sounds riveting," she said. It totally wasn't her thing, but at least Finn sounded like he'd enjoyed it.

"They're gonna be cool photos," he said. "And Cage is gonna give me my first shot, let me take 'em."

"That's good," she said, running her hands through his long, dark hair. What Finn lacked in formal training as a photographer, he made up for with raw, natural talent. He was good, _really_ good. So good that, for the past two years, over half of Arkadia's senior classes had gotten their senior pictures taken by him. He definitely hadn't just been known for being the star quarterback at their high school. He'd also been known for his photos. He had depth; he had layers.

"The only thing is . . . turns out, I'm gonna be getting paid per project, not this set amount like I thought I was gonna get."

"What?" Clarke didn't like the sound of that. "But I thought you were gonna be salaried. Isn't that what Cage said?"

"Yeah, but things changed," Finn said. "But that's okay. I'm, like, _the_ photographer on their creative team. I'm gonna get plenty of work. I'm gonna make plenty of money."

She let out a shaky sigh, hoping so. Because if today's lackluster tips were anything to go by, she wasn't going to be able to help out a whole lot.

"It's all good," Finn promised, putting his arm around her waist. "What about you? What'd you do today?"

She shrugged. "Not much. Went to work. I was thinking about calling Maya, because she heard we're here."

"Yeah, you call her, I'll call Jasper and Monty . . . I'm sure they'll be happy for us," Finn predicted.

"Or they'll think we're insane."

"Well, we _are_ insane," he admitted, "but that's what I love about us." Kissing her deeply, he lay down on the couch with her, his body covering hers, and she giggled against his lips when he tickled her sides. Being in a relationship for two years meant that this guy knew exactly where to tickle her to make her laugh.

Later that night, Clarke lay in bed with Finn, fast asleep after an impromptu round of sex until her phone rang. She reached over onto the nightstand to grab it, squinting her eyes against the glare of the bright screen to see who was calling. _Maya_.

 _Okay,_ she thought. That was fine. She cold totally handle talking to Maya right now.

"You know it's an hour later here," she answered teasingly.

"So you _are_ in New York," Maya deduced. "Wow. I wasn't sure if it was just a rumor or if it was true."

"No, it's true." Clarke got out of bed when Finn started to stir and headed out into the hallway, shutting the door so he could keep sleeping.

"That's . . . a big change," Maya said.

"Well, you started college. That's a change, too," Clarke pointed out, leaning back against the wall so she could slide down to the floor.

"Yeah," Maya agreed, "but Monty and Jasper and I are only half an hour away from home. You're . . . you're in another state. All by yourselves. You and Finn."

"Me and Finn," she echoed. "Kind of romantic, don't you think?"

"Very us-against-the-world," Maya said. "Why'd you guys decide to go?"

Clarke sighed. "It just felt like the right thing to do. And his cousin lined up a job for him out here, so . . ."

"Photography?" Maya guessed.

"Yep."

"Well, that's good." Her friend fell silent for a moment, then asked, "So do you guys, like, have an apartment, or are you staying with his cousin or what?"

"No, we have an apartment," Clarke replied, looking out into the living room. They had a plant in there now, too, and a lamp, because the overhead light tended to flicker, and it was way too bright when it finally did decide to remain on. "It's starting to look really good."

"Good, good," Maya said. She became quiet again, though, and when she said something more . . . she sounded sort of sad. "It kind of sucks, though," she lamented. "We were all gonna come home this weekend, maybe hang out with you guys. But now you're not there, so . . ."

"Yeah." Part of Clarke _did_ feel bad for just taking off and not even telling her best friends in the world that she was leaving. But ultimately, this was her life, hers and Finn's, and they had to do what was best for them. Staying in Arkadia definitely _hadn't_ been best. It'd gotten to the point where she was miserable there, whereas Finn had just been restless.

"Are you gonna come home for the holidays at least?" Maya inquired. "Or . . ."

"I don't know," Clarke admitted. She hadn't really thought that far ahead, nor did she care to. But as of right now, she had no desire to return to her hometown. Not even for Thanksgiving or Christmas. "Maybe when you guys are on break, you can come visit us," she proposed. "It's a big city. There's lots to do here." Arkadia, in contrast, basically just had the movie theater, the park, and whatever high school sporting event that may have been happening on any given night.

"Have you made any friends yet?" Maya asked.

Clarke thought about Bellamy and Emori, the only two people who she'd really gotten to know at all. Emori seemed to get annoyed with her sometimes, but Bellamy . . . well, he didn't seem to mind having her as a neighbor. Not so far. "One," she replied, "kind of."

Maya went on to ask her if it was hard to meet people—yes—if people there were nice—not really—and what things were the most different—everything. They struck up a conversation that carried on for well over fifteen minutes, and as it was winding down, Maya quietly confessed, "We miss you. You and Finn both."

There were _so many_ things about her old life that Clarke didn't miss—the small town gossip, the whispers and the looks, and her mom's gross relationship with Kane for starters—but one thing she _did_ miss was her friends. She'd known them nearly her whole life, and now, they were just living in this whole other world than she was. "I miss you guys, too," she admitted, not willing to speak for Finn. Because Finn was clearly _all in_ here in NYC. And really, he was only friends with Maya, Jasper, and Monty because of her. Already, he was making plenty of new friends here, many of whom were coworkers, and he had Cage here, too. Clarke, on the other hand, really only had Finn.

It was okay, though. He was all she needed.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

Standing in line with dozens of other guys, Bellamy tried to ignore them and disregard the fact that most of them looked _way_ more all-American than he did. He was darker and a lot more diverse-looking than his competition, but he knew that if he went into that audition room and nailed it, he'd stand a good chance of getting the part. So he focused on the script in front of him, re-reading the lines, making sure he had them memorized, making sure he knew exactly what emotions he wanted to convey with his face and his body during his audition. Because it wasn't just about the dialogue, after all. So much of what actors did had to be nonverbal.

"Next," a monotone voice said when the door to the casting room opened. When he looked up, he noticed that he was now the one standing in the front of the line, so it was his turn. He closed his script book, took a deep breath, and entered the room, ready to give another audition another shot.

There were three casting agents sitting behind a table, one man, two women. None of them even cracked a smile at him when he approached the table and said, "Hi, I'm Bellamy Blake." He stopped at the blue X taped to the floor and tried to look pleasant and at ease, even though they were all eyeing him up and down.

"Take off your shirt, please," one of the women instructed.

It wasn't abnormal to have to show off his body during an audition, and he knew he was in good shape. But still . . . it kind of sucked that he'd spent all this time preparing the dialogue and what they asked to see first was his naked chest.

After setting the script down on the floor, he reached down and grabbed the bottom of his shirt with crisscrossed hands, pulling it over his head. He discarded it beside him and stood there like a piece of meat while they studied him more intently. They told him to turn to the side, so he did. They told him to turn all the way around, so he did.

"Face us," the man then said, so Bellamy rolled his eyes _before_ turning back around, not about to let them see how fucking fed up he was with all of this.

All three of them jotted down notes and spoke in hushed whispers to each other. He thought he heard one of the women noting, "He looks good," and . . . well, yeah, he knew that. He wasn't overly-muscled, but he made sure to work out so that he stayed toned, and his physique definitely wasn't a hindrance. In the acting business _or_ in life.

"Do you want me to read the lines?" he finally asked, hoping that he didn't sound as impatient as he really was.

"Read from this," the man said, holding out another copy of the script. "We made some alterations to the character."

Bellamy made his way forward and took the script, opening it up as he backtracked to the blue X. All he had to do was read the first few lines to realize that the character was _completely_ different. Nothing written on the page was the same as the script his agent had given him to prepare.

"Is this even the same guy?" he asked. Maybe they'd mistakenly given him the lines for someone else.

"We made some alterations," the male casting agent repeated sternly. "Can you make the adjustment or not?"

God, that condescending tone . . . Bellamy hated it. And he hated this dialogue, too. The character he'd been set to audition for had been a nice guy, someone caring and with an actual conscience. But the character on the pages in front of him now was a complete jerk. A tool. Not the part he'd been looking for.

"Yeah, I can do it," he said, knowing it was in his best interest to keep going with the audition. Switching it up from playing a good guy to playing this loser guy? Yeah, he had that covered.

...

Another day of work, another day of misery. Clarke didn't make nearly as many mistakes her second day on her own, but she still had to deal with plenty of annoying, demanding, and even outright rude customers. Her tips were a little better, but honestly, they were still pretty much crap, and her feet were _still_ killing her by the time she got off work. The other waitresses kept saying she'd get used to it, but she didn't see that happening.

"Bye, Emori!" she called as she left the break room, eager to get out of there for the day. "See you tomorrow."

At first, Emori didn't say anything, but then she said, "Clarke." And when Clarke spun around, she added, "You're doing better."

Clarke smiled, happy to hear that. "Thanks," she said. Maybe if she started to do a really good job here, her tips would increase. And if her tips increased, then so would the cheerful attitude she was desperately trying to maintain.

When she got home, she was totally looking forward to taking a nice, long, hot bath, then changing into some comfy clothes so she could just veg out and relax for a while. But from the second she shoved open her problematic door, she realized that wouldn't be possible. A loud, "Surprise!" greeted her as dozens of people jumped out in front of her. People she didn't know or even recognize. Complete strangers. What the hell, was she in the wrong apartment or something?

"Hey, Princess," Finn said as the crowd parted to let him through. "You didn't think I'd forget about your birthday, did you?"

She hadn't thought that, not for a second, but she hadn't expected him to surprise her with a party, either.

"Wow," she said, taking it all in. She smiled at all the faces who were smiling at her, trying not to look to look like a deer caught in the headlights.

Since their apartment was small, people were pretty packed in, but everyone seemed to be having a good time already. Someone had brought a sound system, and hip hop music was pulsating loudly. There was more food on the counter than they'd had in their kitchen since they'd gotten there—chips and drinks and stuff, mostly—and everyone was mingling and talking like they knew each other. Maybe everyone did.

"Are you surprised?" Finn asked her, putting his hand on the small of her back so he could escort her towards the counter.

"Yeah," she said. _Shocked_ was probably a better word choice, but surprised worked, too. "Who are these people, Finn?"

He popped a chip into his mouth and answered, "Just people from work. And Cage's friends and stuff."

She nodded, pretty sure most of them just wanted an excuse to go to a party and didn't really give two shits about the fact that it was her birthday. But Finn had probably just figured he had to populate the room and . . . well, he'd done that.

"Most of the people from work brought gifts, too," Finn said. "Look." He motioned to a new microwave set up on the counter, as well as a lamp and laptop on their living room desk.

"Somebody brought a computer?" she asked him incredulously.

"No, that's my work computer," he explained. "But I can keep it here, so that's good. Now we don't have to buy one of those."

She nodded, happy about that. And the microwave, to be honest. A birthday party with strangers as guests was still a good party as long as they brought presents.

"Oh, I want you to meet someone," Finn announced suddenly, and he called, "Raven!"

A slender brunette whipped her shampoo commercial hair around and beamed a smile as he waved her over.

"Raven, this is my girlfriend, Clarke," Finn introduced. "Clarke, this is Raven Reyes. She's the head of our creative team."

"Hi," Raven said, extending her hand in greeting. Clarke shook it unsurely, because . . . this girl didn't look much older than she was. Yet she was in charge of some team at the agency? Impressive.

"Hi," Clarke echoed as she shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too," Raven said. "Even though Finn's only been working a couple days, I feel like I've already heard so much about you."

"Really?" Clarke smiled up at her boyfriend, happy to hear that.

"I do kind of like you," Finn teased. "You know, just a little bit."

"A little bit, huh?" Clarke laughed. She wasn't gonna lie, knowing that Finn still talked about her a lot even though he was working with a gorgeous girl like this . . . it was kind of nice.

"So happy birthday," Raven said.

"Yeah, thanks."

"First birthday away from home?"

Clarke nodded wordlessly, wondering if her mom would call her later. Her dad probably would, too, even though . . . even though he hadn't called her yet.

"That's a big birthday then," Raven said. "I was eighteen when I had my first birthday away from home. I'd just moved here, fresh out of high school. Didn't know anyone. It was so intimidating."

"Did you go out or just stay in?" Finn asked.

"Oh, I celebrated my birthday with my favorite stuffed animal," Raven admitted. "And the blanket I'd been holding onto ever since I was a baby."

Clarke laughed, glad that she wasn't having to do that. "Wow, so you moved here all on your own?"

"Yep," Raven replied proudly. "The plan was to model and save up enough money for college, but . . . well, somehow I ended up working for Cage instead. And now four years later, here I am. It's not just a job anymore. It's a career."

Clarke kept smiling and nodding, feeling a pang of envy when Raven said that. Because her job at Dropship was most definitely _not_ a career. She could hang in there for a couple of months, probably, if she had to, but if Finn's paycheck started coming in and they were managing, then she was totally quitting and looking for some other kind of work. Waitressing didn't really seem like it was her thing.

Finn and Raven started talking about work after that, something about the upcoming photoshoot for that new brand of flavored water or whatever, so Clarke politely excused herself from the conversation. She was still wearing her ill-fitting Dropship uniform, and not only was it uncomfortable, but it wasn't flattering. Raven and these other girls were wearing sparkly cocktail dresses and fancy jewelry. Clarke doubted she had anything even half that nice, but surely she could rummage around those drawers packed full of thrift-store clothing and find _something_ more presentable.

She found a short-sleeved navy blue dress that wasn't really all that nice but wasn't really all that horrible, either, so she shut the door to the bedroom, making sure it was locked so that no one could barge in while she changed. She'd packed one pair of black high heels, too, so she put those on, took her hair out of its messy ponytail and ran a comb through it, and then touched up her makeup, using the mirror in her compact since they didn't have a mirror in the bedroom yet. There. Now she looked more like a birthday girl.

Before she returned to the party, however, she felt like she needed a little fresh air. Not that air in this city was _fresh_ , per say, but . . . she just needed some air before she ventured back out there and rejoined all those people. So she stepped out on the balcony, listening to the muffled beat of the music coming from the living room. She wasn't sure how long Finn intended the party to last, but hopefully it didn't go so late that it'd disrupt their neighbors. Clarke didn't want anyone filing any noise complaints against them. Bellamy wouldn't, but whoever lived on the other side of them or below them or above them might.

As if on cue, the sliding door one apartment over opened, and out came Bellamy. He was wearing round black glasses and had on a grey t-shirt that said _I Read Books_ on the chest.

"Hey," she greeted. "Nice shirt."

"Thanks," he said, whipping a cigarette and his lighter out of his pocket. He didn't light it, though, just stood there rolling it between his fingers before he asked, "Got a party goin' on or something?"

"Yeah. It's my birthday," she told him.

"Oh, happy birthday."

"Thanks." She listened in as someone inside laughed _very_ loudly—more like a cackle than a laugh—and then she turned to face Bellamy and admitted, "I don't know anyone in there."

"No one?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No one. Except my boyfriend."

"Didn't you invite them?"

"No, he did." She sighed, figuring she could make the most of it. It wasn't the relaxing evening at home she'd had in mind, but still . . . it was nice of him to throw her a party. She knew she should be grateful.

"So how old are you then?" Bellamy asked her.

"Nineteen," she answered, wishing she could say she was twenty-one so she could just ditch her fake ID and be legal.

" _Nineteen_?" he resounded in disbelief. "Wow, I didn't know you were that young."

"It's not _that_ young," she said. She'd always been one of the oldest people in her grade, and as such, she'd always been way more mature than most of her peers.

"You're almost the same age as my sister," he said.

"It's not like I'm a kid," she mumbled, a bit miffed that he was making her seem that way.

"No, but . . . I was nineteen four years ago, so it sounds young to me."

She quickly did the math and figured . . . yeah, he looked twenty-three. He definitely looked less boyish than Finn did, a little more rugged and chiseled in his face.

"So are you having a good birthday so far?" he asked her.

"Yeah, I guess," she said. The day had been mostly work, but Finn _had_ sung to her when they'd woken up this morning. "I mean, eighteen was a pretty rough year, so I'm ready for nineteen."

His eyes narrowed curiously, and he questioned, "Why was it rough?"

She wasn't about to tell him, and to be quite honest, she was surprised she'd even hinted at all the turmoil last year had brought. Luckily for her, she didn't have to deflect the question, because the door slid open, and out came Finn onto the balcony.

"Hey," she said, happy for the distraction. She quickly realized it may have looked kind of weird, though, for her to just be standing out here talking to the guy next door, so she hastily introduced them. "Finn, this is Bellamy. Bellamy, this is my boyfriend, Finn."

"Hey," Bellamy greeted with a quick nod of his head.

"Hey," Finn returned, holding out his hand. There was too much space in between their balconies for either of them to reach, though, so he just laughed and put his arm around Clarke instead. "Is this the guy you drove to work?" he asked.

"Yeah." She hadn't really mentioned him since then, but if she'd wanted to, she could have told Finn that he was also the guy who'd let her freeload off his laundry load of darks, and the guy who'd loaned her the milk for the macaroni she'd made him last night.

"Good to meet you, man," Finn said. "Hey, we're havin' a party for my girl over here, so if you wanna come join us . . . we got some food, some booze."

"Uh . . ." Bellamy hesitated a moment, scratching his eyebrow, then said, "Yeah, sure. I'll be on over."

"Great." Finn led Clarke back inside, and she smiled gratefully at Bellamy. At least this way there would be _one_ person she knew there. Not that she knew him very well or anything, but . . . whatever, it was a start.

When Bellamy came over, he hadn't changed his shirt, but it did look like he'd changed into a darker, nicer pair of jeans, and he'd ditched the glasses. Finn greeted him near the door and shook hands with him for real this time, then told him to grab whatever he wanted and have a good time. Clarke had a feeling Bellamy could knock back a few beers, so she grabbed a Budweiser can out of the fridge and brought it over to him.

"Thanks," he said, popping open the tab. He took a big swig and said, "Quite the turnout for a girl who doesn't know anybody."

"Well, they work with Finn," she explained. "I do know a few people. That's Raven." She pointed out the beautiful Latina, who was chatting up another group of people now.

"Raven's hot," Bellamy remarked.

"And over in the corner, that's Cage," she said. "Finn's cousin. He's the one who owns the agency. But this is only my second time seeing him."

"So besides your boyfriend, am I seriously the person you know best here?" Bellamy asked.

"Pretty much," she admitted sheepishly.

"That's sad, Clarke." He took another drink and said, "Come on, let's go mingle."

Bellamy was _much_ better at mingling than she was. Either he was more naturally socially outgoing, or New York had just forced him to be that way. He struck up conversations with people he'd never met, and by keeping at his side and listening, Clarke was able to learn a little more about him. His last name was Blake, he'd lived in New York for the past four years, and he could down an entire can of beer in about two minutes flat. The most surprising insight, however, came when they started talking to a middle-aged blonde cougar of a woman named Diana Sydney. She completely ignored Clarke and asked Bellamy, "Have you ever done any modeling?"

"Uh, yeah, actually, I have," Bellamy replied.

Clarke looked up at him, not sure why she was surprised. Bellamy was . . . a really good-looking guy. Of _course_ he'd done some modeling.

"Let me give you my number," Diana said, pulling a small business card out of the top of her dress. "You never know, we might have a job for you."

Bellamy thanked her, and her eyes roamed all over him like she was . . . hungry or something. Hungry for a man.

After about a half an hour of mingling, Clarke needed another break. She wasn't claustrophobic or anything, but there were a _lot_ of people in there, and she was starting to feel hot and sweaty. So she told Bellamy she would be back, but he just said, "I'll come with you," and followed her down the hallway. They side-stepped another person she didn't know as he came out of the bathroom, and she slipped into her bedroom, letting Bellamy join her. It was so nice to be away from that huge crowd and that loud music, to just be able to catch her breath.

"Your place is looking nice," Bellamy remarked as he walked around the room unsurely.

"Yeah, it's getting there," Clarke agreed, taking a seat on the foot of the bed. "We have this mouse, though, and I set a trap, but I haven't caught it yet."

"Wilma?" he said. "Yeah, she's tricky."

"You named my mouse?"

"Well, she used to be mine, but then she moved out. I could never catch her, either." He stood by her dresser and picked up the one framed photo she'd put on top of it: her and her mom and her dad at Disney world back when she'd been fifteen. They were standing outside of Cinderella's castle, and she was wearing a princess tiara on her adolescent head. Her mom had on Minnie Mouse ears, and of course her dad was donning Mickey Mouse ones.

It all seemed like such a long time ago now.

"I take it these are your parents," Bellamy deduced.

"Yeah." And that was just about all she cared to say about them.

"You miss 'em?" he asked.

She could have lied, and that probably would have voided any curiosity he may have had, but she answered truthfully instead. "Not really."

He set the photo down and gave her a perplexed look.

Eager to change up the conversation, she said, "So you model, huh?"

"Kind of." He shuffled towards the bed and sat down beside her, making sure not to sit too close. "Once in a while, if I get offered something, I'll do it, just to scrape up some extra cash. But it pays shit."

Couldn't have paid much worse than her tips at Dropship. But she had heard stories about how horrific the life of a male model could be.

"Actually, I'm trying to make it as an actor," Bellamy revealed. "Bartending's just a paycheck. Landing some major part someday . . . that's the goal."

"Oh." She smiled a bit, feeling like she could picture him in some hit CW drama or something like that. Maybe one of those roles where he'd play the part of someone years younger than he actually was. "So why didn't you move to LA or something?" she asked.

"Well, I did, at first," he revealed. "Grew up in a small town, just like you. In Louisiana."

Well, that explained the LSU blanket on the back of his couch. "Louisiana?" she echoed. "So, like, crawfish and swamps and Mardi Gras?"

"I prefer alligator to crawfish, but . . . yeah, pretty much."

"Ew." She wrinkled her face in disgust, feeling like that must have tasted awful.

"No, I didn't live close enough to New Orleans to do the Mardi Gras thing," he said. "Just a small town called Trikru. Probably even smaller than yours."

"Mine has about 5,000 people," she informed him.

"See? Got you beat. 2,000."

"Wow." She'd driven past some towns in Kansas with populations in the single digits before, but even 2,000 was mighty tiny.

"I did sports in high school," he told her, "but I did drama, too. I was the lead in every play. And all my teachers kept goin' on and on about how I had so much charisma and so much talent and stage presence, so when I didn't get enough scholarships to pay for college, I just figured I'd give acting a shot, hopefully make enough money to be able to help out my mom and sister back home."

She sensed there was a _but_ coming on since he was still just a bartender, so she went ahead and said it. "But?"

"But . . ." He rolled his eyes. "LA was awful. I waited tables, just like you're doing now, got one speaking part the whole year." He cleared his throat and recalled that part when he said, "'Would you like fries with that?'"

"Oh, really, that was the part?"

"That was the part." He shook his head, laughing as he remembered it. "I was in the credits, though, listed as Fry Guy."

She laughed, too, not because it was particularly funny, but because . . . well, he seemed to have a good sense of humor about it.

"So after that first year, I figured I'd give New York a chance, so I moved here," he said, shrugging. "I don't know. It's better. I mean, I've gotten a couple small parts here and there, some commercials and shit, but . . . I still gotta bartend if I wanna make ends meet."

"Yeah." She felt like that was what she was doing at Dropship right now, just making ends meet. Getting by. Hopefully it wouldn't last too long.

"Do you ever miss your home?" she asked, not even sure why she was asking. It wasn't that she was homesick for Arkadia or anything, or ever would be, but . . . she was just curious.

"I miss my sister," he admitted. "I don't get to see her very much. She's kinda the most important person in the world to me, so . . ." He trailed off, sighing. "And I miss my mom. Sometimes. I worry about her a lot."

"Why?" Clarke asked.

"Just . . ." He trailed off again, but instead of answering this time, he motioned to her guitar, still propped against the corner walls where she'd set it the first night and asked, "Hey, do you sing?"

"Oh, kind of," she replied. "Not really all that well. I mean, I'm not _bad_ or anything, but . . ."

"Is that why you came here," he asked, "to be a singer?"

"No." She'd come here for Finn to be a photographer. And for herself to be able to start over. A music career was a very unlikely possibility. "I mean, I'd love to sing and . . . I don't know, paint and draw and be an artist and stuff, but . . . that's probably not gonna happen."

"It could," he said, leaning back a little bit as he grinned at her. "So you're the creative type then, huh?"

"Well . . . yeah. But I wasn't supposed to be," she confessed.

"Why not?"

"Well, I was supposed to go to med school."

"So why didn't you?"

She let out a shaky breath, not about to divulge that particular part of her past. There were certain things that were just off limits when it came to the conversations she was going to have with the people she met here, and anything that tied back to her family was one of them.

To his credit, Bellamy didn't push the question. In fact, as if he sensed that she didn't want to talk about it, he got to his feet and suggested, "Come on, let's go back out there."

 _Might as well,_ she supposed. They'd taken a long enough break in here.

Even though she wouldn't have minded doing more mingling with Bellamy, Finn pulled her aside and started introducing her to more people once she re-emerged from the bedroom. And Bellamy was totally at ease on his own. So she met some of the other people Finn would be working with, people whose names and job titles she couldn't remember. She smiled at all of them, and they smiled at her and told her happy birthday, but inevitably, they just ended up talking to Finn. Clarke slipped away from him while he had a conversation about different camera lenses with a fellow photographer, and she grabbed herself a beer out of the fridge. She wasn't a huge drinker, but she could put one or two of them back without problem. In fact, that sort of sounded like a good idea. A little buzz might be kind of nice right now.

"I thought you were nineteen," a girl's voice remarked as Clarke tilted her head back to down the beer at the bottom of the can. She spun around and came face to face with Raven again. "Don't worry," Raven said. "I won't tell. Besides, plenty of people here aren't twenty-one yet."

"Really?" Clarke felt like they all looked older, but maybe some of the models were even younger than she was.

"Yeah, we're a really youthful company," Raven explained, almost boasted. "But that's good. That's what makes us fresh and new and hip. People hire us to manage their advertising campaigns because we have our fingers on the pulse of what's current in this city. It gives us an edge."

Clarke continued to listen as Raven explained what exactly it was that their agency did—TV commercials, radio commercials, online advertising, mobile marketing, print campaigns—but she got distracted when she spotted Bellamy chatting up the blonde woman who had given him her card earlier. He was networking, she assumed, trying to score himself a modeling gig. Whatever he was saying to her was making her laugh, and at one point, she even readjusted her dress to show a little more cleavage. How freaking obvious was she? But she was definitely one of the older women in a room full of younger women, so she'd probably have to settle for just flirting with Bellamy Blake.

"Basically anyone who hires us for promotion or marketing . . . it's our job to figure out what they want and make their vision come to life," Raven wrapped up. "And it has to translate into sales. If they don't see an increase in profits, they're gonna go seek out greener grasses."

"Huh. Sounds . . . interesting," Clarke remarked. Although that was perhaps a stretch. If Finn enjoyed the work, then good for him, but it wasn't really her thing.

"Your boyfriend's gonna be a great addition to the team," Raven predicted. "I've seen some of his photos, including some of his photos of you."

Clarke's eyes widened in horror. "Which photos?"

Raven laughed. "Relax, nothing inappropriate."

Clarke breathed a sigh of relief.

"Anyway, he's a great photographer," Raven complimented. "And to be so good when he's just self-taught . . . it bodes well for him here."

"Good." Clarke definitely liked the sound of that. Maybe if they made enough money this year, they could move into a nicer apartment in a nicer neighborhood.

"Raven!"

Clarke recognized her boyfriend's voice calling Raven away from her, so Raven said, "Give me a minute," and slinked through the crowd to join Finn and Cage, who were talking to two of the more slender guests in attendance now. Models, by the looks of it, but Clarke wasn't threatened by them. Finn didn't like straight up and down girls. He'd always appreciated her curves.

Left alone again, she scanned the room for someone, _anyone_ she could strike up a conversation with. And thankfully, she noticed that Bellamy was on his way back over to her. "Having fun?" he asked.

"Yeah, sort of." It wasn't the same as her middle school birthday parties, that was for sure, but it wasn't a horrible time, either.

"Well, I think I'm gonna head out," he told her.

"Oh." Really, she would have loved for him to stay a while longer, just because it gave her someone to talk to. "Okay. Well, thanks for coming."

"Thanks for having me," he said. Then, surprising her, he reached down and took her hand. "Happy birthday." He gave it a gentle squeeze, and when he did, she felt him slip a small paper into the palm of her hand. Smirking at her, he turned and headed out, and she waited until he was gone to see what he'd given her.

It was a yellow Post-It note folded up into a smaller square. She unfolded it and couldn't help but laugh slightly at what she saw. Bellamy had scribbled down a drawing for her birthday present. He wasn't a great artists by any means, so it was a little hard to make out the image he'd been going for, but it looked like he'd drawn a cartoon version of her as a singer, up on a stage with her guitar. On the bottom, he'd scrawled, _Happy birthday_ in sloppy handwriting.

Well . . . that was oddly sweet.

Before she could even fold the drawing back up and stash it away somewhere, Finn turned down the music and announced that it was time to sing happy birthday. Prior to everyone starting in on the tune, he came up to Clarke, kissed the side of her head, and apologized that there was no cake, but he _did_ have a cupcake ready to go for her. So he stuck a candle in the top of the frosting, and someone with a lighter lit it for her. Everyone sang, but when they got to the part of the song where they were supposed to say, _'Happy birthday, dear Clarke,'_ there was a noticeable quieting as they struggled to remember her name. But once Finn reminded them, everyone sort of tacked it on as subtly as they could. They clapped for her as she blew out her candle easily, but she forgot to make a wish. Oh, well. It wasn't like wishing did any good anyway. Last year, despite the increase in arguments between them, she'd wished for her parents to stay together forever, and that sure as hell hadn't happened.

The party continued on after that. Someone turned the music up again, and everybody went back to talking to the people they'd been talking to before. Finn stayed with Clarke for a bit, asking her if she was having a good birthday. She told him she was, and she swiped her index finger against the frosting of her cupcake to take a taste. The frosting was definitely the best part.

But when Finn moseyed on over to Cage again, leaving her behind on her own, she moved the sticky note around in the palm of her hand, thinking that . . . she had to go thank Bellamy. It definitely wasn't a drawing that was going in any museums or anything, but still . . . it was the thought that counted. And the thought was nice.

She was sure that no one would notice if she was gone, nor would they notice her leave. So she said, "Excuse me," as she made her way past a couple of people, and then she walked right out the door. She knocked on the door to Bellamy's apartment, but he didn't answer. After several long seconds of waiting, she twisted the doorknob, finding that it was unlocked. So she just let herself in.

"Hey, Bellamy?" she called, but the minute she saw what was going on on his living room couch, she yelped, "Oh, god!" and shielded her eyes from the sight. That Diana woman was bouncing up and down on top of his lap, her dress hiked up over her backside. They were definitely having sex; there was no disguising it.

"Sorry!" Clarke apologized, squeezing her eyes shut. She turned to leave, but she stopped when she heard Diana getting up and . . . readjusting everything. She also heard Bellamy zip his pants up, and she felt the need to apologize again as Diana strode past her swiftly. "Sorry."

The older woman shot her an annoyed glare as she left the apartment.

"Great timing," Bellamy muttered sarcastically.

"I shouldn't have come in," Clarke acknowledged. "I-I didn't know . . ." She trailed off, looking at Bellamy . . . almost skeptically now. Not because it was awkward, but . . . well, it _was_ awkward, but at least she hadn't seen any part of him that she wasn't supposed to see. He just . . . he seemed different to her now, not so much like the guy who'd given her that silly birthday scribble.

"What?" he prompted as she continued to stare at him.

"Nothing." She didn't really know what to say, so she decided she should just leave. Go back to her birthday party, because clearly he'd left for a reason, and clearly she'd just interrupted that reason, and . . .

She started towards the door, but she hadn't even grabbed the doorknob when she whirled back around and the words poured out of her mouth: "Do you always do this with girls?"

"Do what?"

"This." She motioned to his couch. "That."

Slowly, he stood up. "You mean sex?" He shrugged. "Yeah, why not?"

"Well, it's just . . . it didn't even seem like you _liked_ that Bree girl very much, and then there's this Diana woman and . . ." Clarke didn't mean to sound so judgmental, but . . . unless he had a thing for older women, his motivation for sleeping with her was totally transparent. "I mean, she's, like, twice your age, Bellamy."

"So?" he challenged.

"Well, are you into her or-"

He made a face. "No, I'm not into her."

Well, that proved her point then, didn't it? He was sleeping with her to get his foot in the door.

"What the hell are you tryin' to say, Clarke?" he demanded, sounding more than a little impatient with her. "Just spit it out."

"I just don't understand why you would sleep with her just to get a job. A job that pays shit, as you put it."

He grunted, shaking his head angrily. "You don't get it."

"Oh, I think I do."

"No, you don't," he argued. "You've been here for, what, a few days? You think you know this place? You think you know what it's like living here? You don't know shit, Clarke."

The hostility in his tone . . . it took her aback a bit. It was the first time she'd really seen him be anything other than friendly.

"You're nineteen. You're naïve, clueless," he went on. "You don't know how the world works."

 _That_ pissed her off, though, because even though she may have been younger than him, she'd lived plenty of life, gone through plenty of hardship, and for him to insinuate that she was some ditzy spoiled princess didn't sit well with her. "You don't know me," she reminded him.

"And you don't know me, either," he growled, narrowing his eyes at her. "If you did, you'd know that every penny I got from that modeling job would have gone to my sister. You'd know that I don't like having to fuck my way into that woman's good graces, but I do what I have to do to take care of my family. And if I wanna pass the time with girls like Bree, then I can pass the time. You don't fuckin' know me, Clarke."

She stood there, absorbing the harshness of his words and the venom with which he said them. She'd _really_ upset him, and . . . she actually felt pretty bad about it. Sure, he was getting defensive, but that was probably a normal reaction to have when someone barged into your apartment and basically accused you of acting like scum.

"Why don't you go back to your party?" he suggested, glaring at her.

She swallowed hard, wishing it actually _felt_ like her party. But it felt like more of a party for the advertising agency than anything else.

She crumpled up his stupid little drawing in her hand and threw it on the floor as she stormed out. _Way to go, Clarke,_ she thought dejectedly, wishing she'd just stayed put and enjoyed her fucking cupcake or something. Now she'd gone and offended the only friend she'd made in this city so far.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

The last thing Bellamy wanted to do was drag his ass out of bed early and go meet Charles Pike for breakfast. But when his agent called, he forced himself up, took a quick shower, and trudged out. The café they were meeting at was just a couple blocks down the street, so he walked it.

Pike was already waiting for him when he got there. He had a whole bunch of scripts laid out in front of him, which could only mean one thing. But when he looked up and saw Bellamy, he smiled and greeted, "Good morning, Bellamy."

Bellamy just grunted his response. He hadn't slept well, and he was still kind of pissed off about that little tiff with Clarke last night, so he really wasn't in the mood to pretend to be cheerful. "I take it I didn't get the part," he concluded, referring to his latest audition. Why else would Pike have brought more scripts this morning?

"No," his agent said. "I'm sorry."

 _Whatever_ , Bellamy thought. It wasn't surprising at this point.

"But that's okay," Pike went on, not allowing the tone of the conversation to remain discouraged for long. "You said you didn't really want that part anyway, not after they rewrote it. So I've got some more stuff for you here." He stacked all the scripts together and slid them across the table. "Now most of these are pilots for next year, of course, but I think there's some promising stuff."

Bellamy took one look at the first script and tossed it aside. "NBC." Yeah, right, he wasn't landing any part on a major network. "CBS," he noted for the next one. "Are you kidding me?"

Pike sighed heavily, nodding his head in reluctant acceptance of the fact that these parts were just too big for a nobody like Bellamy Blake to land. "Well, I put some commercial casting calls in there, too," he said. "If you wanna keep working your way up."

"I've _been_ working my way up," Bellamy reminded him heatedly, "for _five_ years. And I hired you to help me. Aren't you supposed to be my agent?"

"I am your agent, Bellamy."

"Aren't you supposed to make all this easier on me?"

"I'm trying to-"

"Aren't you supposed to help me get my foot in the door?" Bellamy snorted in dissatisfaction. "Well, guess what? My foot's still outside the door, Pike. I haven't had a speaking part in six months. I feel like I'm paying you for nothing."

"Just calm down," Pike said evenly. "The big break is gonna come. We just have to be patient."

Bellamy shook his head skeptically. Miller had gotten fed up waiting for his big break to come and fed up with dealing with Pike in the process. That was why he'd quit, and it was getting to the point where Bellamy was wondering whether it was in his best interest to do the same. But what would he be quitting for? To clock in even more hours as a bartender? Yeah, that sure was an upgrade.

...

Four days of work at Dropship felt more like four years. Clarke was definitely getting the hang of it now, but that didn't mean she was liking it any better.

As she was clearing off one of the tables—and collecting her whole whopping two dollars of a tip—she glanced out the window across the street and noticed a familiar head of dark hair. Bellamy, hands in his pockets and sunglasses on his face, entered the Grounders Bar and Nightclub, and she took that to mean he was starting work earlier today.

She wondered if he was still upset with her. Even though he'd called her clueless last night, she didn't really feel all that mad at him. The fact was, she _could_ be clueless sometimes. Anyone with a clue would have just let him and Diana continue doing their thing and wouldn't have said a word about it. Because he could sleep with whoever he wanted to, regardless of his motivation. Or how old and thirsty she was.

"Yo, blondie!"

She whipped her head around when she heard the voice of one of the customers she was waiting on. Two guys attempting to look all thug life were sitting at a booth, and she'd just given them their food. What could possibly be wrong with it already?

Setting the dirty plates back down on the table, she meandered through chairs towards their booth and asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah, it's great," the Eminem-wannabe assured her. "I was just wondering . . ." He held up his jumbo hot dog, asking, "How much of this you think you could fit in your pretty little mouth?"

His friend laughed, as though something were actually funny about this, but Clarke readily informed in, "That's not funny," and started to walk away.

"Wait, hold up." The customer's hand flew outward, clamping down hard on her wrist. "You stay here."

She didn't want to stay, so she tried to yank her hand away. But the guy held on tight, eventually pulling her down beside him in the seat. It was alarming being grabbed so roughly, and she looked around for help—Emori, Kim, someone. But the only other person out there right now was another customer, a man, and he seemed to be doing everything he could to purposefully look away.

"Maybe you could feed us," the guy across the table proposed, and beneath the table, he started to rub his legs against hers.

"Stop," she told them both, squirming to get free of the hold of the guy next to her. "I said _stop_ ," she growled more adamantly, shoving her hands against his chest. That was enough to get him to loosen his grip on her, and she shot to her feet, quickly scampering away from the table.

Feeling close to tears, she found her manager right as she was coming out of the kitchen. "Kim, those guys were just grabbing at me," she revealed in a rush of breath. "They really freaked me out."

Kim took one look at the two customers, who were now sitting there like model citizens, eating their meals and acting like nothing had happened. "I'll get someone else to wait on them," she said.

"What?" Clarke shrieked. "Can't you just kick them out?"

"I'll get someone else to wait on them," Kim repeated, and then she went into the breakroom and hollered, "Emori!"

Clarke's shoulders slumped with defeat, and when she chanced a glance at the two guys again, they were smirking, knowing they'd just gotten away with their horrendous behavior. The one who grabbed her was even brazen enough to reach down and grab his crotch suggestively, and the other one blew her a cruel kiss.

 _I can't do this,_ Clarke thought. She'd literally just been sexually harassed, and in this day and age, with all the assault allegations that had come to light in the media, she really thought that would have been a bigger deal. To everyone. But the customers thought it was funny, and her boss clearly thought it was trivial. And now poor Emori was going to have to put up with them for the remainder of their time there. No wonder she hated the job. Clarke had already come to hate it, too.

She took off her nametag and set it down on the counter, so completely fed up and just _done_ for the rest of the day. Maybe even longer than that. She walked past those two awful men, making sure to keep her distance, and headed straight for the door.

"Clarke!" she heard Kim yelling after her. "Clarke!"

She didn't respond, didn't even turn around. She walked right out of that restaurant and happened to time it perfectly with a rare break in traffic. She lumbered across the street and stopped in front of the door to Grounders, a place she'd never been before. But at least she knew someone in there. Bellamy may have been mad at her, but maybe if he saw how upset she was, he wouldn't be so mad anymore.

From the second she set foot inside Grounders, she realized it wasn't a dance club like she'd thought. There was a big stage up front with several poles on it and a thin, in-shape girl with a long blonde braid moving around those poles. Although she was still fully-clothed, she looked to be practicing a routine while another woman watched and told her what corrections to make and things to change. So clearly this was a strip club. Of course Bellamy would bartend here. He probably hooked up with all the strippers.

Clarke slowly approached the bar, sitting down on one of the stools. There weren't any customers around right now, and she wasn't even sure there was a bartender around until she peered over the counter and said, "Excuse me?" when she saw somebody crouched down on the floor.

Another blonde girl stood up. She was tall, hair pulled back messily, and immediately smiled at Clarke with a lustful look in her eyes. "Well, hello," she said.

"Hi," Clarke responded unsurely.

"I'm Niylah."

"Clarke." This girl was into her, right? She didn't seem subtle.

"Are you here for the audition?" Niylah asked.

Clarke's brows furrowed in confusion. "No. Actually, I'm just—I'm here to see Bellamy."

" _Oh_." Just the way Niylah said that made Clarke think that there were quite a few girls who had come in here to _see_ Bellamy before, probably for a different reason. "He's in the back," she said. "I'll go get him."

Clarke waited while Niylah disappeared back behind the stage. She left the door open, so Clarke could hear her say, "Hey, Blake! Someone's here to see you."

 _Someone you got mad at last night,_ Clarke thought, shifting nervously in her seat. It was quite possible that he wouldn't want to talk to her. At all. Or that he'd take one look at her and just roll his eyes and walk away.

When Bellamy came out and met her eyes momentarily, she felt relieved. Because he didn't look at her the same way those two guys over at Dropship had. And he didn't head straight back the direction he'd come from. He had a huge crate of glasses in his arms, so he carried that over to the counter and set it down. "Clarke," he said, not sounding nearly as friendly as he had last night out on their balconies.

"Hey," she said. "Sorry to just drop in."

He didn't say anything, just took one of the glasses out of the crate and held it up to the light, as if to inspect whether or not it was clean enough.

"I was working today, but I just walked out," she revealed.

"Told you it's a crap job," he muttered.

Yeah, he hadn't been lying about that, or even exaggerating in the slightest. "These two guys came in and started . . ." She shook her head, letting her sentence fade. No use in recounting it now.

Bellamy set the glass down, staring at her with what looked very much like concern. "You okay?" he asked.

Honestly, she wasn't sure, but just the fact that he had the decency to ask made her _feel_ a little bit more okay. "Yeah," she said. "I just needed to get out of there."

"So you came here." He snorted as he began to inspect more glasses. "Interesting choice."

Clarke spun her barstool around, leaning back against the counter. She watched the girl up on the stage, sort of amazed by how light and airy she made pole-dancing look. "She's really good," she remarked. "Beautiful."

"Yep," Bellamy agreed. Something about the way she said that must have alerted him, though, because he stopped what he was doing, leaned forward, and gave her a curious look. "Clarke, are you turned on right now?"

"Well, I probably would be, if I hadn't just been harassed," she admitted.

"So you like girls?"

"And guys, obviously. Hence my boyfriend."

"Huh." He studied her curiously for a moment, then just said, "Well, that's cool."

"I wish everybody thought so," she mumbled, watching the girl twirl around the pole a few more times before she spun her stool back towards Bellamy. "Look, I just wanted to come apologize for what I said last night," she started in. "I had no right to be so judgmental. I don't know why I even said anything. I should've just minded my own business." Maybe it was a residual small town thing. She was used to knowing everyone's business, after all, and everyone knowing hers.

"No, I know it's low," he admitted. "Sleeping with casting agents and shit like that just to get work . . . it should be beneath me. But I guess it's not, so . . ." He trailed off and shrugged. "It is what it is."

"Yeah." He sounded so resigned, and that made her feel for him. She'd never seen Bellamy act in anything before, but he _did_ have that charisma. And the good looks. Surely his talent alone would be enough to get him a big part someday. He didn't have to rely on . . . other things.

"Well, I'm sorry, too," he apologized. "You're not clueless."

She smiled a little, because she hadn't been expecting an apology from him in return. "Am I still naïve?" she asked, intending for it to be more of a teasing question.

But when he answered it, he sounded completely serious. "Yeah."

The smile slowly fell from her face, but she knew better than to be offended this time. Bellamy . . . was right. She _was_ naïve. Naïve enough to think that she was cut out for waitressing, that she could endure all the unpleasant things about that job just for the sake of money. Right now, she wasn't even sure she wanted to show her face in there again.

"I gotta get back to work," he said, once again lifting the crate of glasses. He stashed it beneath the counter and said, "See ya," as he headed towards the back again.

"Bye," she said, not sure what she was supposed to do now. She _supposed_ she could sit at the counter and get a drink. That Niylah chick would definitely serve her without even asking for ID. Or she could go back over to Dropship and talk to Kim, explain to her why she'd left and why she felt like more should have been done to make her feel comfortable and safe in the wake of how those customers had treated her. Or maybe she could just go home, see if the mousetrap had caught Wilma yet. (She really doubted it had.)

She'd barely even taken three steps towards the door when something inside told her to stop, and she looked back over her shoulder, up at the stage. The girl up there looked completely calm and focused on her routine, and the criticism from the woman watching sounded more constructive than anything else. She said, "Why don't you try a front hook instead of a back hook?" and the girl immediately said, "Like this?" and swirled around the pole a few times with both her legs coiled around the front. She looked so fluid and graceful, like water.

Clarke slowly approached them as the woman watching said, "Yeah, I like that change. That looks better. Good job." She gave Clarke a curious look as she moseyed on up and said, "Can we help you?"

"Oh, I just wanted to say . . . you're really good," Clarke told the girl on the stage. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that, even though this girl made it look easy, it _wasn't_ easy. It probably took lots of strength and control, and lots of practice.

"Thanks," the girl said, smiling.

"Auditions start tomorrow," the woman watching said. She had sort of a harsh look about her, and a unique one, too. Even though she was tan and had blonde hair, she was clearly of Asian descent. And even though she was slim, she looked . . . tough as nails.

"Oh, I'm not here to audition," Clarke told her.

"You're not?" She took one look at Clarke's figure and said, "Could've fooled me." She looked up at her pole dancer and said, "Good work today, Harper."

"Thanks." When her boss was done, the girl, Harper, sat down on the edge of the stage, her legs hanging off the side next to a sign that said in big, bold letters, _NO TOUCHING_.

"I'm Harper," the girl introduced herself.

"Clarke."

Harper quickly took out her long, blonde braid and ran her fingers through her tresses. "You're really not gonna audition?"

"Well, I've never . . . pole-danced before."

"Neither had I, until I started working here," Harper said. "There's a three-day training process before you audition. There's a flyer up in the window outside, gives all the details. I'll be here tomorrow helping train people. By the end of it, I think they're looking to hire, like, three new girls."

 _Hire_ , Clarke thought. It was another job opening. And something told her the tips here were a lot better than the ones at Dropship were. "Do you get paid a lot?" she asked.

"Well, this is the only job I have, if that tells you anything," Harper replied. "Some girls get paid even more than I do, because I don't show as much skin."

"So you have to, like . . ." Clarke didn't know how to say it, so she just settled for, ". . . take your clothes off?" hoping that didn't sound rude or disrespectful.

"I draw the line at topless," Harper said. "But it's really up to you. I mostly just like the dancing, and we get to do a lot of it. We're a performance club, so it's not like lap dances or anything like that. It's actually kind of fun."

Clarke looked out at all the tables and couches facing the stage, wondering if it was _fun_ when there were dozens of men packed in there watching her. This girl didn't seem ashamed of it or anything. In contrast, it seemed like she actually enjoyed it.

"Look, as far as strip clubs go, this one's pretty good," Harper went on. "The boss, Anya, the one you just met . . . she's _totally_ badass. She's super protective of all of us girls, but that's a good thing. If anyone so much as lays a hand on you, she'll throw them right out."

"Hmm." Clarke thought of Kim and her I'll-get-someone-else-to-wait-on-them mentality, and she had to admit . . . a change in management style sounded refreshing.

"And I saw you talking to Bellamy over there. Our _hottest_ bartender." Harper grinned.

"Oh, he's just . . . he's, um . . ." Clarke sputtered.

"Relax, everyone thinks he's hot. And he's a pretty good guy, too. I think I've had maybe one guy grab at me in the two years I've been working here, and Bellamy literally knocked him on his ass. It was great."

Clarke laughed, wishing Bellamy had been over at Dropship today to knock those two creepy customers on _their_ asses.

"It's not a bad gig," Harper said as she slid off the stage, "and you've got the look for it, so . . . think about it?"

Clarke nodded as Harper left, _already_ thinking about it. She'd taken jazz and tap dancing as a kid, but that had been years ago, and her only dance experience after that had been halftime routines with the cheerleading squad in high school. It was very likely that she'd grab onto that pole and slip right off or fall and break her neck. She had some rhythm and some coordination, sure, but . . . probably not enough to look like Harper had up there.

 _Time to go back to work,_ she thought, reluctantly walking towards the door as the restaurant across the street loomed at her. She had to go back in there . . . either to resume working or to quit.

...

Even though he knew it was low and had admitted so much out loud to Clarke today, Bellamy still called Diana Sydney up that night. He asked if she wanted to meet up somewhere, and she told him she'd come to his place. She was there in twenty minutes and on her back five more minutes after that. He fucked her, trying not to think about what he was doing, and made sure she got off before he did.

Afterward, she lay in bed with him, curled up against his side, and purred contentedly, "That was amazing."

"Yep," he agreed, although amazing wasn't exactly the word he'd use for it. Sure, he'd cum, too, but only because he'd thought about the girl he lost his virginity to in high school. She'd been really hot.

Reaching over into his night stand drawer, he fumbled around for a pack of cigarettes and took one out. His lighter was always within reach, but just as he was about to spark it, she asked, "Can I have one?"

First she wanted sex, now she wanted one of his cigarettes? There was only so much he was willing to give this woman before he found a way to kick her out. He handed her one, though, and lit hers before his. They lay together then, both of them puffing away, neither one of them really saying anything.

By his estimation, it'd been five minutes. Once they hit the ten minute mark of cuddling, he was going to get up and go to the bathroom, make some excuse about not feeling well so she decided to leave.

"I'm sure I can work you into our new ad campaign," Diana said, drumming her fingers against his chest. "You've earned it."

 _Yep,_ he thought solemnly, _I sure have_.

His phone vibrated, so he reached over to the table and picked it up to see a text message from his sister. Her grammar was atrocious, and she used way too many emojis and abbreviations than anyone ever should, but he got the gist of it: She was wondering what he was doing for Thanksgiving this year, because her boyfriend, Ilian, had invited her to spend it with his family.

Even though he hated the thought of not spending Thanksgiving with her, he knew that she'd probably have a much more wholesome one with Ilian and his family. The kid lived on a farm. He had two loving parents who would probably make a home-cooked meal, mashed potatoes and turkey and all that shit. He wasn't about to deprive her of that just because he didn't want to be alone on the holiday. _Go ahead,_ he texted back.

"Who's Octavia?" Diana asked, eyeing the name on the cracked screen of his phone.

"My little sister," he replied quickly before she could get possessive or jealous.

"Hmm." She didn't seem interested in his little sister at all as she took one more big puff, then tried to crawl on top of him. "Ready for round two?"

Oh, he really wasn't. In fact, right now, he couldn't even fake any enthusiasm. "Actually, I'm kinda tired," he said. "I think I gotta go to sleep."

"Oh." She looked noticeably disappointed but still said, "That's fine," as she swung her leg off of him and stood up.

"You want me to call you a cab?" he asked in a last-ditch attempt to be somewhat gentlemanly.

"No, I drove." She picked up her clothes off the floor and got dressed, and he watched her, sort of disgusted with himself for having done this tonight. It wasn't that Diana wasn't pretty. For her age, she was, and even though her body had some stretch marks and a few more wrinkles than he was accustomed to, he could get past that. It was just . . . Clarke was right. She was twice his age. He wasn't attracted to her, and he didn't have feelings for her. So this wasn't even casual sex. It was . . . strategic.

She left without another word, and that was fine by him. When he was alone, he just lay there, continuing to smoke his cigarette in the dark. Next door, he heard Clarke and Finn's mattress start to squeak a bit, but they were nowhere near as loud as he and Bree would have been.

...

"God, I hate these afternoon shifts," Murphy complained when Bellamy showed up that day.

"I know," Bellamy agreed, rubbing his eyes. He'd had to wake himself from a pretty damn good nap to get here. "Time goes so slow."

"At least I get to leave here before you," Murphy bragged. "I already clocked in two hours."

"What're you gonna do when you get home? Xbox?" Bellamy guessed.

"Nope." Murphy grinned and pointed over Bellamy's shoulder. "I'm gonna do her."

Bellamy turned around, and into the club came Emori dressed in her Dropship uniform.

"Hey, baby," Murphy said, coming out from behind the bar so he could kiss her. "You on break?"

"Yep. Thought I'd come see you," she said.

"Well, I can go on break, too."

Bellamy rolled his eyes. "So while you two make out, I gotta do enough work for the both of us, huh?"

"Bro, I've been here two hours," Murphy reminded him. And then all his attention was on his girlfriend again.

 _Nauseating,_ Bellamy thought. Not that it wasn't good for Murphy to have someone and be in love. That proved that he actually had feelings. But they definitely went overboard with PDA sometimes, and it usually left Bellamy feeling like he could throw up.

On the floor was a box full of empty bottles, so he picked it up to go dispose of it out back at the dumpster. As he walked past the back studio, though, something caught his eye.

It was audition day. Harper was walking gracefully around the pole, demonstrating the proper seductive technique as the instructor, Luna, narrated to a small crowd of girls.

And _Clarke_ was in that crowd.

 _What the hell?_ he thought, stopping in his tracks, staring at her confusedly. What was she doing there?

She didn't notice him, which was probably for the best, and he didn't stick around to watch. He just got right back to work, took that box out to the dumpster and then came back inside, hoping she was horrible on the pole and Luna and Anya told her not to come back tomorrow. That'd be the best case scenario.

He and Murphy kept themselves busy that afternoon, and there were a few people who came in for a drink. But everyone knew the club was the most packed at night when all the girls were up on stage. There wasn't much to do during the day except clean, stock shelves, and wait for Clarke to emerge from that studio room.

When she did, he almost missed her, because he'd had to go help stock the bar on the other side of the wall between this strip club and the adjoining dance club. He came back to his post just in time to see Clarke heading out with Harper. "You did good," Harper was telling her, and that basically crushed any and all hope of her not being asked back tomorrow.

"Thanks," Clarke said. "See you tomorrow."

 _Not if I have anything to say about it,_ Bellamy thought determinedly, charging forward. He caught up to her right outside and called her name. "Clarke!"

She turned around, blushing a bit, as if she were embarrassed that he'd seen her there. "Hey," she said. "I'm not stalking you, I promise."

"No, you're just learning how to be a stripper," he said, "which is probably worse."

"Pole-dancer," she corrected.

"Same thing." It didn't matter what they called it; at the end of the day, they were still talking about her getting up there on that stage and taking her clothes off.

"Bellamy . . ." She looked across the street at Dropship, shaking her head. "You were right. That's a horrible job over there. I can't work there."

"And you think this is better?"

"I know it is. I talked to Harper . . ."

"Harper . . ." He laughed angrily, shaking his head. "Harper's not the norm. She's an exception. Talk to some of the other girls. See how well they like it."

"I thought it was fun," she said. "And I'm really good at it. I caught on like that." She snapped her fingers in the air to demonstrate how quickly it had happened.

"Great, but that doesn't mean this is something you should do," he argued.

"Well, I already quit my other job, so . . ." She shrugged.

"So find something else," he suggested.

"It's not like there's a lot for me to choose from."

He sighed, empathizing because . . . no, there wasn't. He'd done the waiter thing for a couple of years, and now he was doing the bartending thing, and yeah, it sucked sometimes. But it was better than this. "Clarke, listen to me," he said. "You don't wanna do this."

She crossed her arms over her chest, gazing at him sternly. "You realize how hypocritical you're being, don't you?"

He blinked in confusion. "What?"

"You use sex to get yourself further. Why shouldn't I do the same?"

"Because, I'm not . . ." He thought back to that audition the other day, how he'd stood there with his shirt off for those three people and how objectifying it had been. He didn't want that for Clarke. And he _definitely_ didn't want her to sink down the same place that he'd been in last night when he'd slept with Diana. "It's different, Clarke," he insisted. "You're a girl."

"And you're a jerk," she muttered, stepping down off the sidewalk.

"No, I'm not . . ." He raced towards her, shutting the door of her Cadillac just as she'd opened it. "I'm not trying to be a jerk," he insisted. "I'm just trying to look out for you."

"I don't _need_ anyone looking out for me; I can take care of myself," she insisted.

How did she know that, though? She didn't. She was so young, and she was still so new here. There was _so much_ she didn't know about life, things she never had to know if she just made a different decision here. "I think you're having a knee-jerk reaction to whatever happened at the restaurant yesterday," he admitted. "That was bad, and now you're convinced this is gonna be better. But it's not. Trust me on that."

She stared up at him, and for a moment, he thought he'd gotten through to her. She looked to be considering everything he was saying, thinking in through. But then she shook her head and stubbornly said, "I don't care what you say. I'm doing this. Now move." She opened the car door again and got in, and he stood there, desperately trying to come up with something else to say before she drove away.

"What's your boyfriend think about all this?" he asked as she started the car up.

She froze with her hand on the key, and he could tell . . . she hadn't told him yet.

"Should be an interesting conversation," he predicted, backing up onto the sidewalk.

Clarke bit her lower lip worriedly, but she didn't say anything else as she backed out onto the street. Good God, she almost hit a bright yellow taxi. This girl in her blue Cadillac . . . she just didn't belong here.

He watched her drive off, hoping something that he'd said would click with her. But if it didn't . . . well, he'd done his part. Now it was up to her boyfriend to talk some sense into her.

...

Once Clarke had told Finn . . . everything . . . he kind of just sat there looking shell-shocked for a while. For a few minutes, actually. He kept opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but he always ended up closing it again before any words actually came out.

"So?" she finally prompted, hoping to get him to say _something_. If he hated the idea, then she wouldn't do it. And since no man had ever seen her naked besides him, it was very possible he might hate the idea.

"Wow," he finally said. "It's . . . a crazy plan, Clarke."

"Well, so was moving to New York," she reminded him, "but here we are." She scooted closer on the couch, running her fingers through his hair. "I love you, you know," she told him. "Nothing's gonna change that."

"I know," he said, putting one hand on her legs. "I know that."

"And we don't even know if I'm gonna get the job. Today was just a training day."

"But you said you did well, right?"

"Yeah." Not only had she caught on fast, but she'd done a lot better than the other girls. They hadn't learned anything major today, just some basic sexy walks and turns. Tomorrow they were going to work on climbing the pole and doing slightly harder tricks. Clarke . . . felt ready for it.

"Well . . . I know this is gonna sound kinda weird," Finn said, "but I think it's a good idea."

"What?" He was right. It _did_ sound kind of weird.

"I mean, if it's what you wanna do . . ." He shrugged.

"Well, I just think I can make some money," she said, just to remind him that getting attention from other men had absolutely _nothing_ to do with this. "And everything there seems surprisingly safe. Like I think I'd have to deal with more harassment from customers at Dropship than I will with the spectators here."

"Yeah, I don't want you to have to be a waitress if you don't want to," Finn said. "And I mean, am I excited for other guys to get to see you take your clothes off? Not really. But hell, I'm working with models now, and that doesn't stop you from trusting me."

"No, of course not." She trusted him implicitly, so it was nice to know he trusted her in the same way.

"So I'll support you," he decided. "You've got my . . . permission or whatever. I don't know if that's really the right word."

It wasn't, but she'd take it anyway.

Gratefully, she leaned over and kissed him. "I'll pretend they're all you," she promised.

"Good," he said. "Now speaking of stripping . . ."

"You wanna see what I learned today?" she asked, getting up off the couch.

"Well, I wouldn't mind."

She smirked, already undoing the button on her jeans, ready and more than willing to give him a private show.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

Clarke was a bit tired for day two of auditions—or rather _training_ for auditions—because she and Finn had stayed up . . . kind of late. But she still felt more energized than she had for even one day of waitressing at Dropship. It felt so nice to see that restaurant across the street and not have to go in there, to not have to put on the uniform that had never really fit her in the first place. Of course, she wasn't really putting on _much_ to come to Grounders. Just a t-shirt and some short shorts. Some of the other girls had these, like, fancy bustier tops, but Harper quietly assured Clarke that she looked better than the rest of them, even without one.

Bellamy didn't appear to be working when Clarke arrived for training that afternoon, but he was still _there_ , sitting at the bar, having a drink and chatting with that Niylah girl. Clarke tried to walk right past him, because she sort of suspected he was just hanging out there waiting for her, and when he spotted her and hopped off his bar stool, she knew she was right.

"Hey, didn't you tell your boyfriend?" he asked.

Slowly, she turned to face him. "Yeah."

Bellamy looked like he was expecting more. "And?"

"And . . ." She knew he wasn't going to like this, but there was really nothing he could do about it. "He supports me."

Bellamy looked more than surprised to hear that; he looked shocked. "What?" he spat. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No." She didn't really like his tone, to be quite honest. It sounded like he was pissed at Finn, but Finn had only given her what she'd asked for. He wasn't some bad guy or bad boyfriend just because he hadn't objected to this.

"Unbelievable," Bellamy muttered, shaking his head incredulously. " _Un_ believable."

Was it really, though? Was it so unbelievable to be with someone who trusted her decision-making and supported her choices? Maybe Bellamy had never had a relationship like that before. Maybe that's why he was having such a hard time understanding.

She really couldn't stick around to discuss it further, nor did she want to, so she turned and headed back behind the stage to the studio room, where some of the other newbies were already practicing the moves they'd been taught yesterday. She knew she had to push his reaction out of her mind for the rest of the day and just focus on the task at hand. There were about twelve girls still vying for two or three spots. Just because she'd impressed them yesterday didn't mean she was a shoe-in. Harper had warned her that Anya might make a few cuts today for the girls who just didn't have what it took. She couldn't allow herself to be one of them.

Anya was definitely a _boss_. From the minute she came into the room, everyone fell silent and gave her their complete attention, because she just had that commanding, authoritarian presence. She told them that they would be doing some strength exercises today and that the effort they put into those exercises would be part of her evaluation of their capabilities. They began with some general stretching, led by Anya's business partner, Luna. From what Clarke could gather, Luna was sort of a free-spirited hippie. Yesterday, while teaching them the basic fundamentals of pole dancing, she'd emphasized the passion behind this type of performance, how it required being in touch with your body and embracing your own sexuality. She seemed to get a little turned on just talking about it.

They focused a lot on the splits today. Clarke was a little bit rusty on her left side, but she could still get all the way down to the ground. She knew the strength exercises were going to be the real killer, and when she watched Harper hop on up to the front of the room and climb the pole, she had a feeling it was a lot harder than it looked. She and the other girls took turns after that, none of them managing to look as graceful as Harper had. But they all got through it, and soon enough, they could all climb up on the pole at least a little bit.

From there, it got harder, though, because Luna told them they'd be trying to do continuous pole climbs. The goal was to climb up as far as you could, then slide back down but not let your feet touch the floor. Then, it was all about climbing back up again. Clarke managed to do it a few times before _needing_ to take a break. She wasn't alone in that regard. Plenty of other girls were already breaking a sweat, too. It was like the good old rope climb from gym class, except there were no knots to help you make your way up.

The next thing they did were leg lifts. Except they were way harder than normal leg lefts, because they had to do them up on the pole. Once again, they climbed up as far as they could, and then they lifted both their knees towards their chest, stopping at about a ninety-degree angle. Anytime someone's toes weren't pointed, Anya made sure they knew it.

They got their arms into the workout next when Harper demonstrated pole-ups. Not _pull_ -ups, which Clarke had absolutely detested in her middle school P.E. classes, but _pole_ -ups. Using only the pole, they were supposed to hoist their body up while keeping it straight and stiff as a board. Toes pointed, of course. Harper could do plenty of them without even touching the floor, but most of the newbies had to touch the floor in between. When Clarke noticed Anya watching her, she attempted a few without her feet on the floor and actually managed to do them. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw Anya nod her head in approval, and she definitely heard Luna compliment her effort.

"That was killer," she admitted to Harper once they had a drink break.

"Yeah, it's pretty hard at first," Harper agreed. She wasn't even using the drink break to grab a drink. "Takes practice."

No wonder this girl had such amazing abs then. Clearly, she'd spent a lot of time practicing. "I mean, we conditioned for state cheer back where I'm from," Clarke told her, remembering all of those weekend practices with their tyrant of a coach, "but this is at another level."

"It's _very_ physically demanding, which the average person doesn't understand. You're doing good, though," Harper assured her. "Keep it up."

"Thanks." Clarke couldn't help but notice that Harper wasn't pumping up the other girls in this same way. Clearly, she had someone in her corner. Hopefully someone influential who would put in a good word for her with Anya and Luna.

The rest of the time was spent reviewing the basics they'd learned yesterday—the outside step, the pirouette, and the fireman spin. But then they added on some more moves. There was one called a chair spin, which definitely required some core strength to come off as graceful, and the back hook, which Clarke had already seen Harper doing the other day. One girl got so dizzy spinning that she threw up, and Anya escorted her out of the room, probably to break the bad news to her that pole-dancing was just not her forte.

Clarke left training later that afternoon feeling that same sense of encouragement she'd felt yesterday. She was _good_ at this. Not as good as Harper. Not yet, and maybe not ever. But she had coordination and she had rhythm. She may not have been the most physically fit person there, but she wasn't _out_ of shape, either. With more practice, she'd get stronger, and her moves would look more elegant and more controlled.

She got home that night and checked the mouse trap, because that was the first thing she always did when she got home, but it was still empty. So then she changed out of her sweaty workout clothes, took a shower, and blew-dry her hair. Finn would hopefully be home soon, so she had a little time to cook some dinner for him.

While she was in the middle of stirring some spaghetti noodles in a boiling pot of water, her phone rang. Her dad's ringtone, which she'd almost forgotten the sound of. He'd been giving her space these past few months, because she'd asked for it, but . . .

 _Do I answer it?_ she wondered. If she didn't, he'd think she was avoiding him, which she technically was, but if she _did_ , then . . . what was she supposed to say to him?

Turning down the intensity level on the burner she was using, Clarke reluctantly picked up the phone. "Hello?" she answered softly.

"Sweetheart." He sounded relieved to hear her voice. "You don't know how glad I am to talk to you."

Was he really, though? She wasn't sure. Here she was in New York City, and she'd _been_ in New York City for a week now. Surely he'd found out, either through her mother or someone else in town. There was no such thing as keeping secrets in Arkadia.

"I heard where you're at now," he said, and it sounded like he was trying _really_ hard not to sound mad about it. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," she replied, deciding that it would be best to just keep her answers terse and to the point.

"How's Finn?"

"He's good," she said. "Working."

"And what about you? Are you working, too?" he asked.

There wasn't a chance in hell she was going to tell him that tomorrow was the big day, her official audition to become a stripper, so she just lied and said, "I'm waitressing," instead.

"Good," he said. "That's good."

A few seconds of awkward silence descended onto the conversation, and she decided to just wait it out. Her dad was the one who had called her. If he had something to say, he'd say it.

"Well, I miss you," he said. "I wish I could see you. Maybe I could come visit."

 _Maybe not_ , she thought. She and her father . . . they weren't as close as they used to be. The wedge that had come up in between them . . . it'd be hard to ever knock it down again. "Don't you have plenty of things to deal with back home?" she pointed out. There was the matter of selling his old office and embarking on a new career, for starters. Plus . . . all the other stuff.

"I'm never too busy for you," he claimed, but Clarke thought otherwise. Especially when she heard Thelonious Jaha's voice in the background, asking, "Is that Clarke?"

She grunted, rolling her eyes. "Goodbye, Dad." She ended the call quickly and tossed her phone into the living room, on the couch, and then turned up the heat on her burner again. She got back to stirring in the long, thin noodles, concentrating on dinner. And nothing else.

...

Beneath the city swagger and the confidence he tried so hard to project, Bellamy really was kind of a nerd. In his free time, he enjoyed reading and playing video games. If he'd gone to college, he would have studied history. Sometimes he preferred a night in with his best friend to a night out with hot chicks. This was one of those nights.

Miller came by after he got done with his night class, and thankfully, he brought pizza with him, because Bellamy didn't have much to eat. They gorged while playing an old school racecar game well into the night, and they talked while they played.

"So is Pike still pissed at me for ditching him?" Miller asked.

"No, he's representing a couple other guys now, too," Bellamy told him, his eyes never leaving the screen. "He's got me auditioning for more commercials. Imagine that."

His friend grunted, shaking his head. "That's why I had to get out, man. Just the same old thing. Didn't feel like I was really goin' anywhere."

"I know the feeling," Bellamy muttered, maneuvering the controls so that he could dodge some of the other cars in the game.

"I'm kinda digging the college thing, though," Miller said. "I even met someone yesterday."

"Oh, really?" That was fast. "I'll have to meet him sometime."

"Yeah, he's pretty cool," Miller said. "We'll see. What about you, though? I heard you and Bree are done."

"Yeah, finally." He'd let that go on way too long. Hadn't been healthy for either of them.

"Anyone else you got your eye on?" Miller asked.

Anyone else? Well, Diana didn't count since she was a strategic lay, and Clarke was nineteen and had a boyfriend, so . . . "Not really," he answered.

"Not really, huh?" Miller swore as Bellamy's car zoomed past his right at the finish line. "Dammit, man, you always beat me."

"You keep playing, though," Bellamy pointed out.

"Glutton for punishment," Miller admitted. "You wanna play again?"

Bellamy glanced into the kitchen at the clock on his microwave. It was 9:30 now, and he had an early casting call to get to tomorrow morning. "Nah, I better get to sleep," he decided.

"Audition?" Miller guessed.

"Yeah, tomorrow. Wish me luck."

"Good luck." Miller grabbed the now empty pizza box, stepped into his shoes, and said, "Later," as he strolled on out.

Bellamy shut off his TV, turned out the light, and peeled his shirt off. Just as he pulled back the covers and was about to crawl into bed—and probably jerk off before he went to sleep—he heard faint noises coming from outside. No, noise wasn't the right word for it. Music. The soft strum of a guitar, a feminine voice. A familiar one.

Clarke was singing.

He slid open his balcony door just slightly, only enough to hear the words flowing across her lips.

" _Wasn't it easier in your lunchbox days?_

 _Always a bigger bed to crawl into."_

He looked out and saw her sitting in a new outdoor chair, her feet up against the railing, hair in a messy bun atop her head, guitar on her lap.

" _Wasn't it beautiful when you believed in everything?_

 _And everybody believed in you . . ."_

He stood there silently for a moment while her voice faded, waiting until she was sure she was done to step out onto the balcony and compliment her. "You're really good."

She startled a bit but still managed a quiet, "Thanks," in response.

He meant it. Acoustic guitar . . . wasn't really his genre of music, but she sang well. Her voice was just as pretty as she was. "Did you write that?" he questioned, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants.

"No, it's, uh . . . Taylor Swift."

"Taylor Swift." He nodded slowly, not sure he knew any of her songs other than the crap they played on the radio.

"Everybody in Kansas listens to Taylor Swift," she said, almost as if she were defending her song choice.

"Oh, I believe that." He knew his sister liked Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez and . . . whoever the hell else qualified as a pop princess these days. He was more of a Britney Spears man himself. That video of her in the schoolgirl getup . . .

"So what do you like singing about?" he asked, just to try to generate some casual conversation before he inevitably launched into more serious topics.

"I don't know," she replied with a small shrug. "About love sometimes. I guess."

"Hmm." He supposed that really wasn't surprising. Most of the songs people wrote were about love in some way, shape, or form.

"Sorry if I was being too loud," Clarke apologized.

"No, you're fine." He was the one who'd kept her awake with sex sounds before. Hearing her sing . . . it wasn't a nuisance. In fact, he wouldn't have minded hearing it more often. But as he stood there looking at her, noticing the way her fingers rested so easily on the strings of her guitar, he thought about what they would look like wrapped around a shiny stripper pole instead, and he couldn't _not_ try to change her mind one last time.

"So you really told your boyfriend?" he asked. Because he wasn't sure she really had.

"Yes." She set her guitar aside and stood up, flapping her arms against her sides exasperatedly. "Why is it so hard for you to believe he's okay with it?"

"Because, if you were my girlfriend-"

"I'm _not_ your girlfriend," she cut in vehemently.

"No, I know, but . . ." He took a deep breath, trying to ease his frustration, but it wasn't working. Clearly he wasn't going to talk any sense into Clarke. She'd made up her mind, and there was nothing he could do about it. "Fine, you do what you wanna do," he said, reaching for his door.

"I will."

He opened the door for a split second, then slid it shut again. "No, you know what? Screw this." He swung one leg over the railing of his balcony, stepping down on the small ledge of the building on the other side.

"Bellamy, what are you doing?" she gasped.

"I'm gonna get through to you," he vowed, holding on as he swung his other leg over and carefully scaled his way across the ledge towards her balcony.

"Oh my god, are you crazy?" she shrieked as she watched.

"Sometimes, yeah." He grabbed hold of her railing when he was close enough and hopped over onto her balcony. No sweat.

"You just . . ." She motioned frantically between him and the ledge, then mumbled, "Oh my god," as she grabbed her guitar and went back inside.

He slipped in the door before she could slam it in his face. "Would you just listen to me?"

"I _have_ been listening to you," she insisted as she set her guitar down in the corner again.

"No, you haven't, because if you had, you'd know that . . ." He smacked his hand against the face of her guitar. "This? This is what you should be doing, Clarke. You wanna get up in front of people and perform? Then perform _music_. Sell your songs, not yourself."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you."

He rolled his eyes, knowing he was sounding hypocritical again. But this wasn't about him; it was about her. "I'm serious," he said. "You're a good singer. Who knows? You could make it."

"Sort of like how you've made it in the acting industry?" she shot back. "How's that going for you, Fry Guy?"

That was sort of a cheap shot, but he absorbed it because . . . it was true. He hadn't made it. Not yet. And maybe he never would. But again, she kept trying to turn this around and make it about him when it wasn't. "I don't want this for you," he said, looking into those bright blue eyes of her, eyes that were shining even in this dark room. He worried this city was going to dull her shine. It happened a lot, more than she knew, more than she probably wanted to think about.

"Bellamy, just stop!" she yelped, throwing her hands down at her sides. She marched out of the bedroom and into the hallway, and he followed her out into a kitchen that was just as dark as the bedroom was. "I'm not your little project, okay? I don't need rescuing."

"You might," he persisted, not willing to let up just yet. "I've seen it happen time and time again, Clarke. Sweet, nice girls come to this town, thinking they can take care of themselves, and then it just changes them. It uses them up. They get lost."

"I won't lose myself," she growled.

"How do you know that?"

She just snorted, shaking her head stubbornly. He could tell she didn't have an answer for that one. And how could she? Deep down, she had to know just as well as he did that she was going into this whole gig at Grounders blind. "You know, I'm not as naïve as you think I am," she said. "I'm not naïve enough to think that people are gonna come watch me perform because they appreciate my _dancing_. I'm not naïve enough to believe there's never gonna be any losers in the crowd watching me. I know it's gonna feel objectifying sometimes, and I know it _is_ , but . . . honestly, Bellamy, I feel like it's gonna be that way no matter where I work."

He winced, relating to that . . . as much as he could. Sure, he felt objectified on those casting calls, but it couldn't compare to being a girl. Especially not a girl who looked like Clarke.

"So why not work somewhere where I can at least make some decent money?" she argued on. "And somewhere where I can at least feel safe."

"You think you'll feel safe in a strip club?" Was she even listening to herself?

"Yes! I mean, Anya's got my back, and Harper said there's always a bouncer or two there, and . . . honestly, how much trouble can I get into with you there looking after me?"

Oh, he'd do that, to the best of his ability, but there was only so much he could do. "I thought you said you didn't need rescuing," he reminded her.

She frowned, realizing she'd just contradicted herself. "I don't," she reaffirmed.

"Then make up your mind. Do you want me to look out for you or not?"

"I want you . . ." She took a few steps towards him, surprisingly . . . commanding for such a small thing. ". . . to just back off and let me do this," she finished up, an unwavering determination in her voice. "You do your thing, I'll do mine."

His _thing_? His thing sucked. Didn't she get that?

Pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, he fumbled around for his lighter, knowing he'd probably left it back at his place. _Crap._

Clearly disgruntled, she huffed and took that cigarette right out of his mouth. "And you think _I'm_ the one who needs to take better care of myself?"

He rolled his eyes, feeling like a hypocrite again. Yes, he smoked and hooked up with random women and did all sorts of things that weren't in his best interest. But that didn't mean she should do the same. "You're going down a dangerous path, Clarke," he warned, just in case he hadn't already made it abundantly clear.

That one seemed to get a shiver out of her, and for a second, he thought he saw a flash of indecision in her eyes. But it was gone before he could even be sure it'd been there. It disappeared right when the door opened and the overhead light flickered on.

"Oh, hey," Finn said as they both shielded their eyes against the sudden brightness. "It's, uh . . . Bellamy, right?"

"Right." Bellamy had half a mind to lay into this guy, demand to know what kind of boyfriend would ever just sit there and be _okay_ with his girlfriend deciding to become a stripper. But he didn't know Finn, didn't know his and Clarke's relationship, and . . . it really wasn't his place to judge. Even though he _was_ judging.

Finn looked at them curiously, and Bellamy knew it must have looked strange, him standing there without a shirt on, wearing only the sweatpants he was going to wear to bed. Clarke quickly offered up a white lie as an excuse. "Um, Bellamy borrowed some, uh . . ."

"Dish soap," he blurted at the same time she said, "Baking soda."

Finn wrinkled his forehead in confusion.

" _And_ some dish soap," Clarke quickly recovered. "Dish soap and baking soda. And he was bringing them back."

 _Like he's gonna buy that,_ Bellamy thought. But when Finn came up to Clarke and put his arm around her, kissing the side of her head . . . it seemed like he did. "I didn't even know we _had_ dish soap," he said.

"Yeah, I bought some the other day."

"Well, I'm just gonna head out," Bellamy decided, easing past them. It wasn't like he and Clarke could carry on their conversation now that her boyfriend was home.

"You can stay if you want," Finn offered, "hang out for a while."

He glanced at Clarke and saw the unspoken _No_ all over her face, so he reached for the door and said, "Maybe some other time," and waved halfheartedly on his way out.

So much for trying to help this girl.

...

"A little higher," Harper instructed as Clarke used all her might to climb up on the pole. This type of dancing was requiring her to use muscles she didn't even know she had.

"Higher," Harper repeated.

"I think I'm about as high up as I can go," Clarke told her.

"Okay, arms out to the sides."

Clarke took a steady breath and released the pole, holding on with just her legs and putting her arms out in what would have been known as a T position in cheerleading.

"Good," Harper said.

"I feel like Jesus," Clarke admitted.

"Well, it _is_ known as the crucifix pose," Harper told her. "Now slide down gracefully."

Clarke gripped the pole again, sliding down a bit too fast, and she landed hard on the balls of her feet.

" _Gracefully_ ," Harper emphasized with a laugh.

"My muscles gave out."

"You'll get stronger with time." The way she was talking made it sound like Clarke already had the job. Clarke almost wanted to ask if Harper had any insight into the decision-making process. Had Anya and Luna already decided to give her a shot? Or was the decision still up in the air?

There were other questions on her mind, though, too, more pressing questions, ones she needed to ask prior to getting up on that stage and auditioning today. And since Harper didn't seem too interested in helping anyone else warm up, Clarke figured she had the girl's undivided attention. "Do you think I'm making a mistake?" she asked, figuring this girl would have more insight into a stripper's lifestyle than Bellamy would.

"You mean . . . by doing this?" Harper asked.

Clarke nodded.

"Well . . . that depends on what your motivation is."

Clarke thought about it and confessed. "Money. And . . . well, money, mostly."

"Well, you're _gonna_ make money," Harper assured her. "I mean, I get that. That's why I'm doing this, too."

Clarke tilted her head to the side curiously. "I thought you really enjoyed it, though."

"Oh, I do," Harper added. "I think pole-dancing's beautiful, and I don't care what anyone says, it takes some serious athleticism to do what we do. But . . . no, I wouldn't be taking my clothes off for a room full of men unless I had some _serious_ student loans to pay."

"You go to school?" Clarke asked.

"Yep. And when I graduate, I don't wanna be in debt. Stripping's doing more than just paying my bills; it's paying my way through college, so I really can't complain." Harper put her hand on Clarke's shoulder, ushering her away when another newbie approached the pole and started to climb up. "Look, bottom line, Clarke," she said, "I'm not gonna be doing this for the rest of my life. I'm graduating in the spring. I'm gonna be a physical therapist. This is just helping me get there. But . . ." She looked over to one of the other poles, where one of the other strippers had shown up today to help with the training. "Roma? She's been doing this for ten _years_."

Clarke's eyes nearly bulged out of her head. She could definitely tell that Roma was older than Harper, but ten years was an awfully long time. "When did she start?"

"When she was eighteen," Harper replied. "Had a baby, took a break, but then she started back up again. And I hate to say it, but I think she's nearing her expiration date."

Clarke surveyed the tall brunette, noting the tired bags under her eyes, the unenthused hunch of her shoulders. Maybe that kind of demeanor wasn't just due to stripping, though; maybe it was because of her life at home.

"This has been her life for a decade," Harper said sadly. "I don't think it's good for anybody to stick with it for that long."

"No," Clarke agreed. Ten years from now, she hoped to have a nice house with Finn, maybe a kid or two. They were definitely going to be married, and she'd be doing something else for work.

"And then there's Ontari," Harper went on, making a face and pointing out another pretty girl as she flittered into the room. "She's Number One."

Clarke narrowed her eyes, studying the petite brunette closely. Ontari or whatever her name was looked like a fitness model. She had on tight black leggings and a sports bra, and much like Harper, her abs were sort of unreal. She walked right past all the newbies, not even glancing at them, and approached Anya to talk to her.

"Number One?" Clarke echoed.

"She makes the most money," Harper explained. "Of course, she also shows the most skin. She's good, though, don't get me wrong. That girl can do tricks on the pole I can't even begin to attempt."

Clarke listened in to the conversation a bit. It sounded like Ontari was cancelling her performance for tonight because she was sick. Anya was upset and asked if there was any way she could go on, but Ontari just shook her head.

"So if she's the best, why isn't she helping teach us?" Clarke asked.

"Because she's a bitch," Harper grumbled. "If you ever forget she's Number One, she'll make sure to remind you. She'll be like, 'FYI, I make more money in one night than you do in two weeks.'" Harper rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Anya and Luna ask me to help because they know I'm actually nice enough to do it."

Clarke smiled. Harper was definitely nice and super easy to talk to and get along with. In fact, it was starting to get to the point where Clarke was considering her a friend. Hopefully she got the job so that Harper could be her new Maya. (Except that Maya would have rather died than gotten up in front of people and taken her clothes off. And Maya could never know about this. Nobody back home could.)

Anya, clearly fed up with her number one girl, threw her hands up in the air and said, "Fine. Harper!"

Harper immediately stood up straighter.

"You're headlining tonight," Anya told her.

Harper's whole face lit up with excitement. "Oh my god," she squealed, turning to Clarke. "I've never gotten to headline on a weekend before. They always let Ontari do it."

"Congratulations," Clarke told her. Maybe this was the first step towards usurping the number one girl.

 _Who knows?_ she thought, eyeing the pole as one of her fellow newbies slid down off of it. _Maybe I'll be Number One someday._

...

Bellamy wasn't sure why Anya called him in to work an hour early, but since he was looking to keep his job, he got there as soon as he could. He figured he'd be filling in for Niylah again, but Niylah was there, too, sitting on one of the plush couches reserved for the highest-paying customers, a clipboard in her hand.

"You said you need my help?" he said as Anya approached him with an identical clipboard.

"Sure do," she said. "You wanna judge auditions?"

Did he want to . . . to judge auditions? The auditions his next-door-neighbor was taking part in even though he'd tried like hell to convince her not to do it? No, not really. "Can't you get Murphy to do it?" he suggested.

"I thought I'd ask you," Anya said. "You can clock in early if you want, get paid for it. Besides, I thought this was right up your alley." She sat down next to Niylah, and Luna took a seat on the arm of the couch. Harper didn't get to judge, but she was still there, undoubtedly, probably backstage pumping the girls up.

Anya didn't really seem like she was asking for help so much as she was demanding it, so he resigned himself to being a judge and lumbered around the couch, motioning for Niylah to scoot over and make room for him. "You got roped into this, too, huh?" he said.

"Of course," she said. "Gotta get the lesbian perspective."

 _I must just be the straight guy perspective then,_ Bellamy thought. His opinion was apparently supposed to represent all men everywhere. Luna would be the one to judge dance technique, and Anya would be the one thinking about all the money-making potential.

Anya explained the scoring sheet, even though it was so simple a monkey could understand it. There were certain moves the girls had been taught that they were all required to execute. After that, they'd play some music, and the girls had to freestyle a routine for about thirty seconds. All Bellamy had to do was simply mark _yes_ if he thought what the candidate did was good, _no_ if it wasn't so good. After auditions, Niylah and Luna would deliberate and pick either two or three girls who had "potential."

 _Please don't have potential, Clarke,_ he thought as the first girl came out on the stage. She went by the name of Fox and looked absolutely petrified. Apparently she wasn't used to walking in high heels—either that or nerves got the best of her—because when Luna said, "Pirouette," she fell flat on her face.

So Fox was a solid _no_ then.

The next two girls up were . . . attractive, Bellamy supposed, but not really anything special. One of them could do all the moves pretty well, but she had this lifeless look on her face when she danced. The other was a standard bleach blonde who spent too much time at the tanning salon. Nice body, but like Bree, she sort of tried too hard.

By the time the fourth, fifth, and sixth girls were done, every spin was starting to look the same to Bellamy. Hell, he couldn't tell the difference between a chair spin and a fireman spin. Not that he was supposed to. He was just supposed to judge who he thought was the hottest. And none of these girls were doing much for him.

The seventh girl fell off the pole as she tried to climb up it, so . . . no hope there.

"You know who's up next," Luna said prior to the eighth girl taking the stage.

"Mmm-hmm," Anya said. "Let's hope she nails it."

 _Oh, no,_ Bellamy thought, sensing he was about to see some familiar blonde hair grace that stage. _Here we go._

Wearing platform heels that made her look three inches taller than she actually was, Clarke stepped out from behind the curtain and walked out onto the stage. She met his eyes for a moment, looking surprised to see him, and he thought he saw her breathe in sharply. But she didn't look at him for long. She smiled at the three women on the couch and grabbed hold of the pole with her right hand.

She looked . . . really good. Bellamy couldn't deny that. Unlike the other girls who'd auditioned in what basically amounted to lingerie, she'd opted for black spandex shorts and a tight black tank top. Her hair was sort of tousled and messy, makeup minimal, and all in all, she looked like she'd just gotten out of bed.

Yeah. The look _definitely_ worked for him. Must've worked for Niylah, too, because as Clarke started showcasing her outside step, Niylah leaned over and whispered, "She's hot as _fuck_."

Yeah, she was hot. And she did that whole outside step thing pretty seductively. Bellamy felt like he had no choice but to mark _yes_ for that move.

"Pirouette," Luna instructed.

Clarke lifted her left leg, grabbed the pole with both hands, and spun around, ending up with her back pressed against it. It was pretty graceful for someone just starting out. Bellamy had to mark _yes_ for that one, too.

They got into the spins after that—Bellamy could only assume the fireman spin was named what it was because it mimicked a fireman sliding down the pole. The chair spin, he figured, was supposed to look like she was sitting on a chair. And it did. She couldn't do as many rotations on the pole as girls like Harper and Ontari could yet, but she still had some momentum and was able to hold herself up enough to make it around a few times.

Even though she performed them well, he wrote in _maybe_ on those two instead, just because . . . he didn't want to give her too many yeses.

Luna told her to do a back hook after that, which she didn't yet have quite as good of a handle on, but it wasn't as much of a train wreck as some of the other girls. The last thing she was required to do was show that she could actually climb the pole, and she could. She put both her arms out to the side when she was up there, holding on with just her legs, and Bellamy was pretty sure he heard Harper whooping and hollering for her backstage when she did that.

"Very nice," Anya said. "Okay, catch your breath. We're gonna start the music."

 _Maybe. Maybe_ , Bellamy wrote in hastily. Maybe if he gave her enough maybes, they'd hire someone else for the job.

Clarke seemed determined not to look at him when the music started up. Rather than some of the other girls, who just started spinning or attempting to spin right away, she eased into it, walking around the pole a few times, doing a few pirouettes before she swung herself around. She redeemed herself on the back hook or whatever it was called, and out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy saw Niylah fanning herself.

She was only supposed to get thirty seconds of music, but it sure seemed like she was getting more than that as she swung herself around the pole, both legs outstretched and crossed, twirling in a move Bellamy hadn't seen yet today.

"Did she just do a cross ankle sit without even knowing what it is?" Anya asked Luna.

"I think so," Luna said. "She's a natural."

 _Oh, great,_ Bellamy thought. It didn't matter how many _maybes_ he put on his scoresheet, or even if he marked _no_ for everything. Anya, Luna, and Niylah all clearly had their favorite.

 _Beautiful,_ he wrote in the comments section, because . . . yeah, that was obvious. But he made sure to add, _Probably too innocent_. Not that Anya and Luna would take those comments into consideration. Their decision was already made. The auditions were just a formality.

"Thank you, Clarke Griffin," Anya said after she stopped the music.

 _Griffin,_ Bellamy thought. Here he was losing sleep over this girl, and he hadn't even known her last name.

Clarke finally met his eyes again, just before she left the stage. He heard Harper squeal when she got back there, and if that wasn't proof that she'd nailed it, then he didn't know what was.

There were only two more girls who went after her, but neither one of them could really compare. They were pretty girls, but . . . that was it.

He handed off his clipboard and scoresheets to Anya after it was all over and announced, "I'm gonna get to work." Contrary to what people thought when the found out he worked at Grounders, his job was _not_ to watch sexy girls dance on poles. Saturday nights were busy nights, and the bar didn't look like it was fully stocked yet.

While he and Niylah did their job, the girls who had tried out waited around. That Fox chick bolted before she even got the results, which was probably a smart idea in her case. But everyone else stayed, including Clarke, who didn't come up to the bar to talk to him even once. She and Harper were clearly becoming fast friends, because they literally braided each other's hair while they waited.

One by one, Anya and Luna called people back into their offices once they'd made their decision. Girl after girl came out looking disappointed, some even crying, and some muttering curses under their breath. Eventually, it was Clarke and one other girl left. Some brunette named Veronica? Veruca? Bellamy couldn't recall, nor did he care to. He kept busy at the bar, wiping it down thoroughly, and braced himself for news he didn't want to hear.

When Clarke and the other chick came out of the office, they were both happy. Good news. Or so they thought. Harper hugged them both and congratulated them, but she seemed especially happy for Clarke. Once the other girl had left, Harper babbled, "Oh my god, you did the best. I knew you had it in the bag. You're gonna be so good at this."

 _Maybe too good,_ Bellamy thought. He'd feel better if she was just using stripping as a way of paying off college loans like Harper was, if he knew she had other aspirations and goals on the horizon. But as of right now, she just had this, and that worried him.

Since Harper had a big show to prepare for tonight, she had to go backstage and start getting ready. Bellamy eyed Clarke intently, trying to silently lure her towards the bar. Reluctantly, she came on over and sat down on one of the stools.

"Well, congratulations," he said, much less enthusiastic about her new job than Harper had been.

"Thanks," she said. "Didn't expect to see you as a judge."

"I didn't expect to be one," he admitted. If he'd known that was why Anya had called him in an hour early, he would have made some excuse to get out of it.

"Well, I know you have strong opinions about this," she acknowledged, "but . . . can you at least tell me I looked good up there?"

Of course she'd looked good. She'd gotten the job, hadn't she? "You looked good," he assured her.

"I mean, four years of varsity cheerleading. I'd better look halfway decent."

"This isn't cheerleading, Clarke," he reminded her. There weren't going to be people in the crowd shouting out her school's colors. They were going to be shouting at her to take her clothes off.

"I know what I'm getting myself into," she said. "And I'd prefer to not constantly be fighting with you about it."

He didn't want to just act like it was no big deal, be a second Finn to her and support the decision no matter what. But he kind of liked talking to Clarke and maybe harmlessly flirting with her here and there, and he couldn't very well do that if they were always arguing. "I guess it's your choice," he reluctantly accepted, "but hopefully you won't mind if I do my best to look out for you while you're here."

Even though he halfway expected her to roll her eyes and whine about how she didn't _need_ anybody looking out for her again, this time, she stared straight in his eyes and said softly, "I don't mind."

He gazed right back at her, relieved to hear that much. This girl wasn't Octavia, wasn't the little sister he'd devoted his life to taking care of—hell, he'd only known her for little more than week—but she sort of reminded him of Octavia, in a way. Because she had that same spunk in her, that same liveliness. And he didn't want to see it disappear.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

Clarke stared at her phone in amazement, scrolling through the intense workout regime Harper had sent to her. Good god, this fitness routine sounded punishing, but it was what she was going to have to do to keep herself in shape.

"Listen to this," she said to Finn as he washed the dishes. "One-mile run every other day, rain or shine."

"I assume that includes snow," Finn added.

Oh, fantastic, she hadn't even thought of that.

"200 crunches, daily. 50 pushups, _daily_ ," Clarke read on. "And this is just the stuff for me to do at home, Finn. She has all these other strength exercises you have to do on the actual pole."

"Definitely sounds like a workout," Finn agreed. "That's like when we used to have two-a-days for football." He shook his head, seemingly recalling the exertion well. "Back when you were allowed to have two-a-days. It was killer."

"This makes state cheer conditioning look tame in comparison," Clarke admitted. And here she'd been thinking that the most physically demanding workouts of her life were behind her. Not so much.

"Well, I guess it's part of the job," Finn said, draining the sink once he was done with the dishes. "You gotta look good."

Pouting, she feigned offense and teased, "Don't you think I already look good?"

"You look great." He dried off his hands and made his way over to the couch, climbing on top of her, kissing her deeply. "I'm so proud of you," he murmured against her lips.

"Thanks." She doubted her parents would be, but . . . well, that was why they weren't going to find out.

"I can't wait to tell some of the boys back home my girlfriend's a stripper-"

"Exotic dancer," she corrected. Harper said that was the preferred job title.

"Exotic dancer." He wriggled his eyebrows excitedly. "They're gonna be so jealous."

"No, you can't say anything," she told him quickly.

"Why not?"

"Because, if anyone back home finds out, they're gonna spread it around. And it's gonna get back to my mom and dad."

"So?"

She made a face. Did he seriously not get it? " _So_ . . . I don't want them to know. My dad thinks I'm a waitress. Let's just keep it that way."

"What about Monty and Jasper at least?" he practically begged.

"No. I'm not even telling Maya." It wasn't that she didn't think her best friends in the world would _agree_ to keep it a secret for her; it was just that . . . if they knew, then they might _accidentally_ say something or let it slip into some conversation over one of their many holiday breaks. And all it took was one slip-up for the news to spread like wildfire. Besides . . . they might not know what to think about it.

"I can tell Cage, though, right?" Finn said pleadingly.

"I guess." It wasn't like his cousin knew anyone back in Arkadia, so that was probably fine.

"Good." Finn kissed her again, then lowered his head and pressed a hot, sloppy kiss to the side of her neck. "So proud of you," he reiterated.

"Mmm," she purred, tangling her hands in his hair. Everyone seemed to have a lot of faith in her that she was going to excel at this. Hopefully she didn't disappoint.

...

The next day, Clarke showed up at Grounders early in the morning, before the place was even open. Anya had told her to be there at 8:00, so she got there at 7:45 for good measure. Today was a rehearsal day for some big group routine Luna had choreographed for Halloween next month, but Clarke wasn't going to be learning that one yet. Her only job today was to meet all the other girls, sit back, and watch them rehearse in order to get a better feel for what performance level was expected in this club.

Her fellow newbie, Veronica, didn't show up, and she got it on the down-low from Harper that Veronica had changed her mind and decided not to work here after all. None of the other girls who had auditioned had shown much potential, so that meant that Clarke was the only new girl as of right now. Unless they decided to do another round of auditions, Harper told her she'd likely be the only new girl for the next few months. She tried not to be intimidated by the fact, but it was hard not to be when literally every other girl in the room knew more about what they were doing than she did.

Ontari was the last to show up, a few minutes _after_ 8:00, and when Harper introduced her to Clarke, Ontari just looked at her as if she were a bug, barely even worth her attention. "So you're the new girl, huh?" she said almost condescendingly. "Let's see if you've got what it takes." Without so much as a handshake or even a smile, Ontari whisked herself back into Anya and Luna's offices and shut the door.

"Nice to meet you, too," Clarke said sarcastically.

"Oh, never mind her," Harper said. "The other girls are really nice." She waved Roma over, who Clarke had already met yesterday, and reintroduced them. "Clarke, you remember Roma, right?"

"Yeah," Clarke said. "Good to see you again."

"You, too," Roma said. She covered her mouth as she yawned, then complimented, "You know, you really did well yesterday."

"Thanks." She'd definitely felt like she nailed the audition, with the exception of botching her first attempt at a back hook. But Anya and Luna had been very clear that they weren't expecting perfection. Yet.

"So I hear you know my favorite bartender," Roma said.

"Oh, yeah, he's, um . . . well, he lives next door to me," Clarke explained.

"Lucky you," Roma said. "He's a master in the sack."

Clarke's eyes bulged, because . . . well, yeah, she'd pretty much figured he was, but she wasn't _in_ the sack. Not with him. Apparently Roma had been, though, which made her wonder how many of the other girls here Bellamy had bedded. "Oh," she said, "so you've—you've slept with Bellamy."

Roma shrugged. "A few times. It was a couple years ago, right after he started working here."

"Ah." Clarke nodded, but then she remembered that Harper had told her Roma had gotten pregnant. Even though it was none of her business, she practically gasped, "Did he father your child?"

Roma snorted. "I wish. He probably would've stepped up to the plate."

Okay, so Bellamy wasn't this woman's baby daddy then. Good to know.

Poor Roma launched into a rant about her baby's _actual_ father after that, some guy named Steve who couldn't keep a job and never remembered to pay child support, and Clarke was grateful when Ontari came out of the boss's offices and Anya called her in instead. Roma was nicer than Ontari, but it was kind of awkward just standing there listening to her recount all the horrible details of her life these past couple years.

"Hi," Clarke greeted her two superiors cheerfully as she sat down at Anya's desk across from her. Luna sat behind her on a stool. It sort of reminded Clarke of how the coaches on that Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders show sat, but she refrained from saying anything. That show was on CMT, after all, and she doubted anyone in New York City bothered with that channel.

"Glad you decided to show up, Clarke," Anya remarked. "Since Veronica backed out, you're our one and only new hire for now. That means we're gonna be expecting a lot from you."

It definitely added some pressure, but Clarke felt like she could handle it. "I won't let you down," she promised. She hadn't worked many jobs, but she'd been the cheer captain her senior year, and she'd been the student council president and NHS president for multiple years in high school, too. So she was used to people expecting a lot from her. She'd handled it before and could handle it now.

"I just wanted to give you your official contract," Anya said, sliding a thick, stapled packet of paper across the desk. "Take it home, read through it, sign it and bring it back tomorrow."

"Okay," Clarke said, flipping through a few pages. The print was _small_ , but at least it seemed to be worded in a way that she could understand. She'd have Finn look through it with her, though, just to make sure she wasn't overlooking anything important.

Anya cleared her throat and said, "It's come to my attention that you already know one of our bartenders. Bellamy Blake."

 _Does everyone know that I know him?_ Clarke wondered. "Yeah," she said, not sure why that even mattered, "a little bit."

"Hmm." Anya leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. "I should let you know, then, that we have a very strict fraternization policy," she said. "It's all outlined in the contract. Basically, if you work here, I can't have you getting involved with any of our other employees."

"Getting involved?" Clarke echoed questioningly, even though she knew what that meant.

"Romantically, physically. It created a problem last year," Anya went on to explain. "One of our girls was dating one of our bartenders, and when a customer made a sexual remark while she was up on stage, our jealous bartender decided to punch him out. It created a big problem for us. The customer sued, we had to fire them both . . ." She sighed heavily. "Ever since then, I've just decided it's not worth it to risk any incidents like that again."

"Right," Clarke said, understanding why Anya would want to protect her business in that way. "Well, you don't have to worry. Bellamy's just . . . he's my neighbor. And I already have a boyfriend, so . . ."

"Good," Anya said. "Because this isn't _Burlesque._ You're not Christina Aguilera; Bellamy's not the hot bartender. Well, he _is_ a hot bartender, but . . ."

"He's not _my_ hot bartender," Clarke filled in readily. "Got it."

"Good," Anya repeated, smiling at her approvingly. "I've got high hopes for you here, Clarke. You've impressed us so far. Think you can continue to do so?"

"Absolutely," Clarke said confidently. She wasn't the type of girl to half-ass things. When the school had threatened to cancel their homecoming dance, she'd assembled the student council to show up at one of the school board meetings and make their case for having it. When her co-captain had gotten kicked off the cheerleading squad three weeks before state cheer for getting too many demerits, she'd single-handedly reworked all the formations and made the routine fit for nine girls instead of ten. When she put her mind to something, she knew she could do it well.

So now it was time to put her mind to this.

...

There was no pay for practice time. That was in a big, bold font in the contract. Clarke signed it and brought it back, as requested, because the only part she was unsure about was the nudity clause. She had to show some skin for this job, obviously, but how much skin was up to her. Per Harper's advice, she put that she would only be willing to go topless for now, but of course, if she got to the point where she felt comfortable enough showing more than that, she could always change her mind.

It quickly became clear to her that she would have to wait a few days to actually get out on the stage and make some money. Before Anya let her go out there, she had a lot more to learn. Harper worked with her on strength conditioning, and Luna worked with her on more of the moves. She got her back hook spin looking better, then added a very similar but subtly different front hook into her repertoire. Luna taught her how to do what she called a "spin-up," where she started on the ground and then spun herself around into a standing position. It quickly became Clarke's new favorite move, because it made her feel . . . just really sexy, to be honest.

All week long, she practiced with Luna and worked out with Harper, and by Friday, Luna was working on putting together an actual choreographed routine for her. It included a cradle spin, which Clarke was struggling with, but Luna said she could always take it out and put in another chair spin in its place.

"So when am I actually gonna get up on stage?" Clarke asked her instructor eagerly, feeling like she knew enough moves by now to make it work. At the end of the month, she and Finn were going to need to pay their rent, and since his whole flavored water ad campaign seemed to have fallen through, they were sort of banking on her having a solid performance or two under her belt by then.

"Soon," Luna said, fluffing out her already wild, untamed brown curly hair. "I don't wanna rush things. Your big debut needs to be _just right_."

 _I also need money, though,_ Clarke thought. Maybe if she worked with Harper on this cradle spin thing, Luna would be willing to put her up on stage even sooner. "So what are you thinking?" she asked. "A couple more days? A week?"

"Maybe by the end of the month," Luna said.

Clarke felt her heart drop in her chest for a moment. That was only a couple more weeks, but it felt like a long time away.

"You're doing great, though," her instructor assured her. "I'm impressed."

Clarke smiled, wishing that she could be a little _more_ impressive. If she didn't get to perform until the end of the month, then she and Finn were going to be scraping together enough money to pay their rent. All the other cash they'd brought with them had gone to life's other basic necessities, like food and clothing and furniture.

On Friday night, Clarke stuck around after her practice with Luna, per Anya's recommendation, to watch one of Ontari's performances. Ontari hadn't spoken one word to her other than her snide little 'you're-the-new-girl' introduction the other day. In fact, she didn't see Ontari around the club much at all. But if the girl made more money than any other dancer employed there, then Clarke figured it wouldn't hurt to watch and try to learn from her.

It also didn't hurt that Bellamy was working that night. They'd had a few more balcony conversations these past couple days, but that was pretty much it. She knew he'd been hooking up with a few more girls these past few nights, though, because . . . well, she'd heard it.

Since Ontari was back to being the headliner, that made Harper the opening act that night. Clarke stood in the crowd and watched as her friend, whose nickname at the club was apparently "Beach Babe," got up on stage and did her thing. She was _such_ a good dancer, and she had this look of genuine enjoyment on her face as she worked the pole. Her body looked amazing—when did it ever not?—and the men in the crowd had a very enthusiastic response to her performance. There was a bouncer who stood close to the stage and collected all her money at the end. No one was allowed to get close enough to do anything skeevy like slipping money into her costume or anything like that.

After Harper exited the stage, there was a break in between performances, and when Harper emerged from the back, she had on leggings and a sweatshirt and had all the makeup washed off her face.

"Good job," Clarke told her.

"Thanks." Harper sat down at the table for a moment and took a swig of Clarke's drink. She made a face, apparently expecting alcohol. "Club soda?" she said confusedly.

"Bellamy won't serve me booze because I'm not twenty-one," Clarke explained.

"Ah, I see." Harper took another drink anyway and shrugged. "Well, mission accomplished. I pulled in some big bucks tonight."

"Yeah, you did really good," Clarke told her again. "So why are you known as the Beach Babe?"

"Because I grew up on the shore," Harper replied. "Plus, I just kind of have that look. It's all part of branding. You'll get a nickname, too."

 _I already have one,_ Clarke thought. Finn was the only person who she didn't mind calling her Princess, though. Everyone else back home had used it as a term of derision, to make it seem like she was spoiled or something.

"Well, anyway, I gotta go study all weekend," Harper said. "Major test Monday. Call me if you need anything, alright?"

"Alright, bye," Clarke said, waving goodbye to her friend when she got up and left. She wasn't sitting alone for long, though, because _another_ coworker—or at least a former one—came and took Harper's seat seconds after she'd vacated it.

"Emori," she said, surprised to see the girl there.

"Hey." As was always the case, Emori wasn't the most expressive person. She wasn't in her Dropship uniform for once, though, so . . . maybe that meant she'd had the day off. If nothing else, she wasn't working tonight. "I heard you got a job here," she said. "Upgrade?"

"So far." It was definitely weird that stripping felt safer to her than waitressing did. But honestly, in her four days at Dropship, she'd had _so many_ awful male customers slap her ass or say suggestive things to her, none worse than the guys with the hotdog. She couldn't believe Emori had been dealing with that for years now.

"You know, you could always audition here," Clarke proposed. Emori was pretty, too, and since Veronica hadn't stuck with it . . .

"No, actually, I can't," Emori said dryly. "I'm a recovering alcoholic and I have no coordination in my limbs."

"Oh." So that ruled out work as either a dancer _or_ a bartender then.

"I hope you do alright here, though," Emori said. "Keep an eye on my boyfriend, will you? Make sure he's staying out of trouble."

Almost on cue, that Murphy guy strolled on up to the table, saying, "The only trouble I wanna get into is you."

Emori tilted her head back, and they gave each other a quick kiss.

"Ready to go home?" Murphy asked.

"Yep. Bye, Clarke."

"Bye," Clarke said, waving to both of them. She hadn't gotten to know Murphy very well yet, but she knew that, when Anya wasn't watching, he liked to juggle glasses and was actually pretty good at it. So he seemed like an alright guy in her book.

Glancing quickly over at the bar, Clarke saw that Bellamy and Niylah were swamped now. The place was really getting packed, probably in preparation for Ontari's performance, and Bellamy didn't even get a chance to slow down. He went right from one customer to the next and even did that thing bartenders were able to do where they held more than one bottle by its neck in between their fingers. He poured drinks, mixed drinks, slid drinks down the counter without spilling a drop . . . and he looked good doing it.

Clarke had to share her table with a few men she didn't even know as Ontari's performance drew closer. The lights started to dim, and people started chanting, "Number One! Number One! Number One!" A minute or so later, Anya came up on the stage, and a spotlight shown on her. "That's right, you know what time it is!" she pumped them up.

A roar of applause rippled through the entire club.

"You know her, you love her. Give it up for our number one girl, _Ontari_!" Anya exclaimed.

Somehow, the cheering got even louder, and as Anya stepped off the stage, the curtain in the back opened, and out came Ontari, stomping towards the pole in impossibly high heels to the beat of a classic rock song: "Cherry Pie." Her skin was all tanned and oiled up, and she'd piled on some heavy black eyeliner.

"Fuck yeah!" one of the guys next to Clarke shouted.

Ontari wasn't going to have much to strip off, because she didn't have much on to begin with. All she was wearing was this black, bedazzled lingerie that barely covered her nipples and definitely _didn't_ cover her ass when she threw herself up on that pole. She spun so fast that she looked like an acrobat up there, and Clarke's mouth dropped open in amazement as she watched her. The girl could spin right side up, upside down, and at one point, she even did this whole 360 thing with her body where she literally looked like she was floating in the air. When she landed her spins, she often landed them down in the splits, and she was able to keep one hand free during many of her tricks, so she used that hand to unclasp her bra, and it went flying.

 _Holy crap,_ Clarke thought as all the men around her went wild. The bouncer had to push a few of them back, but Ontari didn't seem to mind. She walked right up to the edge of the stage, squatted down with her legs open, and shoved her hand down her panties.

It was _definitely_ a lot different than Harper's routine had been. Racier.

Feeling like the guys at her table were about to explode, Clarke got up and slinked over towards the bar, which had sufficiently cleared out now that everyone was busy watching Ontari. Bellamy didn't seem too interested in watching her, though. He had his phone out and was texting.

"She's amazing," Clarke said, sitting down.

"Yeah, at pole-dancing," Bellamy agreed, his eyes barely leaving his screen.

Clarke almost wanted to ask if he'd slept with her, too, but . . . Ontari had started working there prior to the no fraternization rule in the contact, so the answer was probably yes.

Oh, well. She'd ask it anyway. "You hook up with her, too?"

Bellamy put his phone away in his back pocket. "No. I could've. She started not long after I did. But she had a boyfriend, so . . ."

"Oh." _Had_. Clarke couldn't help but notice the use of the past tense. "Well, you're probably better off. I mean, she's hot, but . . . she's kind of a bitch."

" _Yeah_ ," he agreed emphatically. "You know . . ." He looked up at the stage a moment, then shook his head almost regretfully. "Ontari actually used to be a pretty nice girl."

"Seriously?" Clarke couldn't even fathom that. Twirling around up there on that pole right now . . . she just looked so _bad_.

"Yeah, she got in over her head, though," Bellamy recalled.

"What do you mean?"

He sighed, and the crowd cheered raucously for Ontari as "Cherry Pie" came to an end and another classic rock song started in. "Let's just put it this way: There's a reason she's 'Number One.'"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning . . . she doesn't draw the line at taking her clothes off."

Clarke thought about what that might mean, quickly realizing it could really only mean one thing. "Oh." She looked back up at the stage, where Ontari was now lying on her side, kicking her right leg in the air to flick her panties off. She turned back to Bellamy, kind of shocked that Anya would allow that when she wouldn't even allow her dancers to date the bartenders. "Anya lets that happen here?"

"Not here," Bellamy said. "But yeah, she'll leave with someone tonight. Probably that guy." He pointed over Clarke's shoulder, and when she turned around, she saw a man with long hair in a half-ponytail sprawled out on the couch, watching Ontari with a gleam in his eyes. He had the front row seat _and_ a beautiful girl sitting next to him, too.

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Roan Azgeda," he replied. "Ontari's biggest fan. She sleeps with him, he buys her whatever she wants."

"So . . . she's like his whore or something?" Clarke summarized.

Bellamy grimaced a bit. "Yeah, I guess it's really not much different. He's a pretty shady guy, so . . . stay away from him."

 _Noted_ , Clarke thought, accidentally making eye contact with the girl sitting next to him. "Who is she?" she asked Bellamy.

"His girlfriend, Echo," he answered.

"Echo's looking over here."

"That's 'cause Echo's into me."

Echo was beautiful, but since she was sort of glaring at Clarke, Clarke quickly looked away. "Did you sleep with her, too?" she asked.

"No. And I won't, 'cause of Roan," he responded quickly. "That guy could kick my ass."

"Oh, please," she scoffed, "I bet you're more than capable of holding your own in a fight."

"No, he'd probably hire guys to beat me up." Bellamy shook his head. "Not worth it. I've got other options."

"Like Roma?" she guessed.

"Been there, done that."

"Harper?"

"I do like Harper," he said, "everyone likes Harper, but I only ever kissed her once. When we were both drunk. Then she went and got a boyfriend."

"I don't think she has a boyfriend now," Clarke pointed out.

"Yeah, well, now she's just a friend. It's too late for anything like that." He chuckled a little and said, "What is this? Are you tryin' to set me up, Clarke?"

"Well, I just think you could do a whole lot better than that cougar woman you were screwing the other night."

"That cougar woman is gonna get me a modeling job, and as someone who lives paycheck to paycheck, I could really use it," he said. "So shut up."

"Fine," she said frowning. "God, someone's grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy," he insisted, pouring someone, presumably himself, a drink. "I'm just . . ." Ontari's second performance came to an end, and another round of "Number One! Number One!" chants broke out as she seductively strutted off the stage. "We all have our things we're good at," he mumbled, not making eye contact.

Fine, that was true, she supposed, but . . . what exactly was the insinuation there? That he was Number One when it came to sleeping with random women he didn't even really care about? It sounded like a miserable way to go through life to her.

...

When Clarke got home, she heard voices in her living room. Finn's, obviously, and . . . a girl's? It sounded like they were sort of . . . bantering.

"I still think we should go with my idea," Finn was saying.

"And I'm telling you, we're going with mine. And since I'm your boss, I overrule you."

 _Raven,_ Clarke recognized. _The girl from the party._

"You are . . . _definitely_ a boss," Finn told her, and she laughed.

"Definitely."

Clarke kicked her shoes off and peered around the living room wall. Finn and Raven were sitting by the couch on the floor, tons of drawings and papers full of notes spread out around them.

"Hey, babe," Finn said when he saw her. "You remember Raven, right?"

"Yeah, of course," Clarke said. "Hi."

"Hi, Clarke," Raven returned. "Actually, I'm glad you're here. Will you please tell your boyfriend that I'm right and he's wrong?"

Without even knowing what they were arguing about, Clarke did just that. "She's right and you're wrong."

"Thank you."

Finn rolled his eyes. "Studio lighting can look just as good as natural lighting these days. And if we did the shoot in the studio, then we wouldn't have to get up so early."

"Oh, please," Raven huffed, "aren't you supposed to be the guy with _boundless_ energy? Sunrise shouldn't be an issue for you, Mr. Straight Outta High School."

"Yeah, Finn, you like natural lighting," Clarke reminded him. He'd taken all her senior pictures outside, and they had all turned out gorgeous.

"I do," he said. "Fine, Reyes, see you at sunrise."

"That's the spirit." She gathered up all of the drawings and documents and stuffed them in an expandable folder. "Alright, well, I'll just be outta your hair now," she said. "Nice to see you again, Clarke."

"Yeah, you, too. Bye," Clarke said as the pretty Latina squeezed past her and left. When it was just her and Finn, she noted, "Long hours."

"Yeah, we had to throw together a photo shoot for tomorrow at last minute," he said, groaning as he got to his feet. He rubbed his knee a bit, then headed over to the fridge. "She's nice, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Clarke agreed, following him, "very nice."

"And she's good at what she does."

"I'll bet." Raven had that same kind of in-charge presence that Anya had, and she definitely didn't seem hesitant to boss Finn around. "Well, I saw someone who's good at what she does tonight, too," Clarke said.

"Oh, yeah?" He grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator—the stuff from the tap was undrinkable—and unscrewed the cap. "At the club?"

"Yep. The top-earning girl."

"Ah." He tilted his head back as he took a drink. "What's she look like?"

"Very fit, very pretty," Clarke admitted. "But _very_ slutty. I'm not gonna be that slutty up there."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that."

"Don't get me wrong, though, she's _good_. I mean, she looked like a circus performer up there on that pole. I thought she was gonna fly right off of it. And here I thought I was doing good, but then I look at all the stuff she can do, and it's like . . . damn, I've got a long way to go."

"Well, you just started," he reminded her. "She's probably been at this a while."

"Yeah." _This and . . . other things,_ Clarke thought. If what Bellamy had said was true, then Ontari was probably with that Roan guy right now, making even _more_ money and making it in a _very_ frowned-upon way.

"I'm sure you'll pass her up in no time," Finn said, giving her cheek a little kiss as he eased past her and started down the hallway.

"You're going to bed already?" she asked him.

"Yeah. Early morning tomorrow."

"Right." Sunrise and all that. "Well, I'll come join you later."

"Alright. 'Night, babe."

"Goodnight." She sighed disappointedly when the door shut. Looked like it was just her and the TV tonight, which was fine, except . . . well . . . she was starting to figure out one thing she actually _did_ miss about Arkadia, and that was that, back there, she and Finn had gotten to spend a lot more time together.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

Since Bellamy's trash was overflowing, he decided it was probably time to take it out. Thankfully, the trash chute was only a few doors down, because his gigantic black bag was bursting at the seams.

As he tried to squeeze it down the chute without making too much of a mess, Clarke's door opened, and out she came. She had on black spandex shorts and one of those workout sports bras, and her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Since she had earbuds in, she didn't hear him when he said, "Hey." So he called her name instead, louder. "Clarke!"

She turned back around and smiled when she saw him. "Hey," she said, taking out her earbuds.

He closed the chute and looked her up and down. "Goin' for a run?"

"Or a fast jog. I haven't really decided yet."

He laughed lightly, wondering where she planned on going. Their neighborhood wasn't great by any means, but if she took a few bad turns, she'd wind up on even worse streets. "Alone?" he asked.

"Yeah. I mean, it's daytime, so . . ." She shrugged.

 _Daytime,_ he thought, internally rolling his eyes. Like that made any difference. Sure, the worse stuff in this city happened at night, but he'd heard things about girls getting mugged even in the middle of the day. She shouldn't be going out alone. "I'll go with you," he volunteered, making his way back to his door. "Just let me get my shoes on."

"You don't have to . . ."

"It's fine. I gotta stay in shape for my job, too." He kept the door open since his shoes were right inside and stepped into them without untying them.

"I run slow," she warned him, standing in the doorway with one hand on her hip.

"Then try to keep up." He grinned, imagining she'd look cute if she worked up a sweat.

Bellamy led the way, making sure to head down streets that weren't so sketchy, and he stuck close to her, even though her pace was not at _all_ his pace. By the end of it, he was running backwards at a slow and steady trot, and she was struggling to keep going.

"Finish strong, finish strong," he told her, using the street corner of 5th and Sax as their endpoint.

With heavy footsteps, she lumbered towards him, panting for air and slumping over with her hands on her knees. He got a _nice_ view of her cleavage when she did that, but he tried not to stare too much. "Good job," he said.

She had to catch her breath for a few seconds before standing up straighter. "How long did that take?" she asked, smoothing her hair away from her face. So many strands had fallen out of her ponytail by now.

Checking his watch, he answered, "Sixteen minutes."

"To run one mile?"

"No, we ran two miles," he estimated.

"Two— _two miles_?" she screeched, her eyes wide in astonishment. "No wonder I'm so exhausted."

"You did good," he assured her. She hadn't slowed him down as much as she'd warned him she would.

"Thanks," she said, using her hands to fan her face. "You know, I used to have to run for cheer. When we were conditioning. Except our school's track sucked, so we just ran laps around the gym. But we always got kicked out whenever the basketball players came in to shoot around."

"Fuckin' basketball players," he muttered, pretending to empathize.

"Seriously."

When Clarke talked about cheerleading, all he could do was picture her in one of those short little skirts with a big bow in her hair, smiling and waving her pom poms. He'd have to ask her to show him a picture sometime. "Did everyone in your town do cheerleading?" he asked. If it was anything like his school, any girl who could fit in the uniform did it. Octavia had done it for a year despite being a total tomboy.

"A lot of us did," she said. "Did everyone in your town play football?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Including you?"

He nodded. "Including me." He hadn't been half bad, either, even though he'd been a theater nerd first and foremost. "I was the running back."

"Oh, no wonder I can't keep up with you."

"It was pretty fun," he recalled. Sure, he'd taken plenty of hits and sustained plenty of injuries over his four years on varsity, but football had given him notoriety in high school. It'd made him popular, despite his less than stellar upbringing.

"Finn used to play football," she told him.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. He was the star quarterback. Pretty much single-handedly got us to state his junior year."

"So what happened senior year then?"

Still catching her breath, she waited a moment before explaining, "He blew his knee out in a playoff game. And that was it."

"Oh, that sucks." His best friend in high school had torn his ACL, hadn't been able to come back from it even in time for track season.

"Yeah, that's why he didn't go to college," Clarke went on. "He was really banking on scholarships, but . . . come on, nobody's gonna offer a football scholarship to a guy with a bad knee."

"Yeah." That explained why Finn had decided to move here then, but it didn't exactly explain why she'd tagged along. And really, when it came right down to it, he thought she was far more interesting than Finn was. "What about you?" he asked, moving his hair out of his eyes when it blew forward. "Why didn't you go?" He knew she had this relationship with the guy, but Clarke didn't seem like the type of girl to just sacrifice everything to let _him_ chase after his dream.

"It's a long story," she finally said.

He shrugged. "I got time." And he meant that. He wasn't scheduled for work today at all, and the only audition he had was at 1:00. He had all the time in the world.

She fell silent, and this sort of dazed expression came over her face. She looked lost in thought for a moment, like she was remembering something, but she didn't make any move to say anything about it. "Let's run back," she blurted suddenly, taking off down the sidewalk in the direction they'd just come from. Even though she was supposedly exhausted, she appeared to be moving faster than he'd seen her move in the past sixteen minutes.

He watched her for a few seconds, curious, wondering, but eventually he relented and took off after her. If it was indeed a long story, clearly it was one she didn't want to tell him yet.

...

This fucking cradle spin. Clarke couldn't get it to look graceful no matter how many times she practiced it. The whole move basically consisted of her curling up in a fetal position on the pole and spinning around, and of course the goal was to _gracefully_ land with her feet on the floor again. But she kept falling out of the position, because she couldn't hold herself upright long enough. She just didn't have enough core strength yet. Plus, the pole was hurting her stomach.

Again and again, Clarke attempted the spin that Harper and all these other more experienced girls made look effortless. She needed to get more pointers from Luna, but Luna had been back in the office with Anya for a while now.

After she'd just fallen flat on her butt for about the fourteenth time, Ontari, of all people, came back into the studio. She took one look at Clarke, rolled her eyes, and then marched back to the office, her high heels clicking on the hard wooden floor.

Determined to just ignore her, Clarke got back up, walked around the pole a bit, and then tried to hoist her legs up into position again. Her abs—if she even had any—burned with the strain, and once again, she didn't quite get it. She was going to need to take a break soon, because she'd been at this for over an hour.

Voices started to arise from Anya's office, and Clarke couldn't help but eavesdrop a bit. She fell silent and listened in as Anya apparently told Ontari something she didn't want to hear, because Ontari yelled, "What? Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!" at the top of her lungs.

Clarke quieted her own breathing, even, just so she could listen closer. She couldn't hear every word, but she heard enough to understand what was going on. Anya was lecturing Ontari about her weight.

"So what if I've put on a couple pounds?" Ontari shouted. "I still look good."

Anya went on to kindly remind her that, in her contract, she'd agreed to maintain a certain weight. She also mentioned that a few customers Friday night had complained about her appearance.

"The other girls work out," Luna noted, kindly suggesting, "Perhaps you should do the same."

"I don't have to work out. I'm Number One," Ontari snarled.

Clarke rolled her eyes. Maybe she was the number one performer, but her self-righteous attitude about it made her a zero.

"I don't think I've gained any weight anyway," Ontari argued haughtily.

"Do I need to break out the scale to prove you wrong?" Anya said. "The decision has been made. You're not performing again until you lose the weight."

 _Oh, shit,_ Clarke thought, sensing that this was not going to be pretty. And indeed, it wasn't. It was a shouting match after that, with Ontari accusing Anya and Luna of favoring Harper and trying to make her their new top-earner. Anya sternly advised that Ontari watch her tone, because she couldn't very well be Number One if she didn't have a job there. That managed to shut Ontari up, and seconds later, she stormed out of the office, doing nothing to even acknowledge Clarke's presence as she stomped out through the studio.

 _Awkward,_ Clarke thought. She probably hadn't been meant to overhear all that.

She started swinging around the pole again, lackadaisically this time, because part of her actually _did_ feel bad for Ontari. Just a little bit. The girl wasn't big at all. Anyone—straight, gay, bi—would look at her and think she had a great body. But apparently it wasn't at the weight she'd agreed for it to be, so . . . she could either bitch about it or buck up and start working out.

Luna came out of the office a few minutes later with posters in her hand that had Harper's picture on it, her posing in a skimpy swimsuit next to a surfboard, really playing up the whole Beach Babe brand. "Sorry you had to hear all that," she apologized.

"Oh, I barely heard anything," Clarke lied.

Luna smiled knowingly. "Right. Well, we have to rework this Saturday's show, so we're gonna have Harper headline again. And you, Miss Clarke, are going to be the opening act."

"Me?" Clarke wasn't even sure she'd heard her instructor right. " _This_ Saturday?"

"Yep. Your big debut."

Even though last week she'd been eager to get going, having watched Ontari perform now, she felt like she was nowhere near ready to go. "But I can't even get this cradle spin," she protested.

"I'll work with you on the cradle spin," Luna assured her. "Don't worry. Nobody's expecting you to be perfect just yet. But it's time for you to get out there and show us what you can do."

 _What I can do,_ Clarke thought, smiling nervously. What she could do were a few basic spins and the splits. Usually. When she'd stretched out enough first. But was that really going to be enough to keep everyone in the crowd enthralled for an entire song? Luna had taught her some of the choreography so far, but she didn't even know her whole routine yet. What if she went up there and just totally drew a blank?

Clarke couldn't remember feeling this nervous since prom night of her junior year, when she'd gone to a hotel with Finn and lost . . . well, _everything_. When she got home and told him the big news, he pumped her up, though, assured her that she could do it, that she'd do great, and that he believed in her. "You're the most beautiful girl in the world," he said, brushing her hair back from her face as she sat on top of him in bed. "Who wouldn't love to watch you?"

"Thank you for saying that, but it's not true," she said. Anya had told her that she needed to tighten up her mid-section a little bit, maybe get a little more toned in her thighs. But at least her weight restrictions didn't seem like they were going to be as strict as Ontari's, because being curvaceous and buxom was sort of the basis of her appeal.

"Do you want me to come watch you?" Finn offered.

"No," she answered quickly.

"What? Why not?"

"Because . . . that'll just make me more nervous."

He rubbed her sides a bit before resting his hands on her hips. "I don't know why, considering I'd be the only guy in the room who's actually seen you naked before."

"I know, but just knowing you're out there . . . it'll make me self-conscious. Because I won't wanna disappoint you."

"You could never disappoint me." He sat up just enough to kiss her, and just as the kiss was starting to deepen, his phone rang. "Shit," he swore, taking it out of his pocket. "It's Cage," he said. "I think I'm gettin' called in to work."

"Right now?" It was almost 11:00 at night.

"Yeah. We gotta edit this photo shoot by tomorrow . . . I'm sorry," he said with a sigh. Lifting her up off his lap, he crawled out of bed and put on his shoes. "Get some sleep, Princess," he said, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before he headed out.

She wasn't tired, though. Not in the slightest. She'd napped this afternoon, and now . . . now she really just wanted to spend some quality time with him. But apparently that wasn't going to happen, so . . .

Groaning frustratedly, she sat up in the bed, looking around the room. Her guitar stared at her from the corner, and her sketchbook lay atop her dresser, waiting to be used again. While she was left alone, she supposed there was no harm in being creative.

Luna wanted her to have some input in her debut routine, so she'd told Clarke to brainstorm some ideas for hair, makeup, and wardrobe. So Clarke did just that. She sketched out a number of designs to go along with the brand she'd been given, but she really felt like she needed some input before she settled on one. And what better input to get than a man's? She would have asked Finn, if he hadn't left, but now that he was gone . . .

. . . maybe Bellamy was home.

She _really_ hoped she wasn't interrupting, and she made sure to knock on the door this time instead of walking right in. It took Bellamy a little bit of time to open the door, and when he did, all he had was a maroon sheet wrapped around his waist. "Clarke?"

"Hey, I was wondering if I could show you something," she said.

He squinted his eyes against the bright hallway lights. His hair was everywhere. He looked like he'd been sleeping. "Right now?" he said.

"Yes." It was too dark inside for her to see much, but she figured he wasn't alone. "Is Bree in there?"

"No."

"Diana?"

"No."

"Some random chick?"

"Yeah, I don't remember her name."

She gave him a look.

"I'm serious, I don't remember her name," he admitted.

"Well, then just . . . kick her out," Clarke suggested.

"I'd like to. She's hogging the bed."

"Oh, never mind, I've got this." She pushed past him and flipped on the light, immediately jolting that poor girl out of her slumber. The girl clamored to cover herself up with the sheets, and Clarke shifted into the scorned girlfriend role. "What is this?" she demanded shrilly. "Who is this? Are you cheating on me? You think you can cheat on _me_ , Bellamy?"

"Uh . . ." At first he seemed confused, but he quickly played along. "Yeah?"

"Get the hell out of here!" Clarke yelled at the girl. "He's _my_ man, you got it? Mine!"

"I'm sorry," the girl apologized meekly, throwing on her clothes as she scrambled for the door.

"You jerk!" Clarke shouted, slamming the door. Then she smiled at Bellamy and said, "Who's an actor now, huh?"

"Yeah, that was pretty good," he complimented. "I should have you do that every time I need to get a girl out." He yawned and treaded into the bathroom and shut the door, and while she waited for him to come out, Clarke explored his kitchen to see if he had any good alcohol. She and Finn just had beer, which, okay, legally, they weren't even supposed to have, but she could really go for some wine or something. Just something different.

"God, you really have a thing for blondes, don't you?" she said as she pulled open all his cabinets.

"I do?"

"Yeah. Bree, Diana, now Natalie."

"Natalie?"

"Well, she looked like a Natalie to me." Clarke finally discovered something promising: tequila. She'd only had that once before, but a little bit wouldn't hurt.

Bellamy, fully clothed now, came out of the bathroom right as she was about to drink some and snatched it out of her hands. "How about some nice Mountain Dew?" he suggested.

She rolled her eyes, resigning herself to no tequila.

"So what do you want to show me?" he asked, taking a red plastic cup out of his uppermost cabinet.

"Just some drawings," she said. "Costume ideas for Saturday. Turns out I'm opening."

Bellamy nearly froze, a dumbfounded look on his face. "Already?"

"Yeah. Crazy, huh?"

He just stood there, blinking a bit, then shook his head. She could tell he still wasn't thrilled about all of this, but at least he wasn't being so judgmental anymore. "So Harper's got the night off, huh?"

"Actually, Ontari does," she informed him.

He gave her a curious look.

"Don't ask."

"Okay." He took a liter of Mountain Dew out of the refrigerator and poured her a glass. "So what's the shtick? Pretty Princess?"

"No." She would have hated that. "The Girl Next Door."

"Well, that's fitting."

"Anya says I just have that small-town look—imagine that—and she wanted to take inspiration from the whole Playmate thing. So . . . that's my catchy nickname."

"It's not bad," Bellamy said, handing her the glass. Then he poured one for himself, but he mixed in some of the tequila, too. Clarke couldn't imagine that tasted good, but then again, he knew more about drinks than she did.

"Cheers," he said, halfheartedly raising his glass, "to your big debut."

"Cheers." She tapped her glass against his and took a drink. "Okay, can I show you my costume ideas now?"

"Go ahead."

She had four sketches, not one of which was really better or worse than the others, so she stood at the counter and tried to explain to Bellamy what she'd been thinking with each one. Luna had picked out a Britney Spears song for her, so with that in mind, the schoolgirl look was definitely a possibility. "That video was everything," he mumbled, but he ultimately told her not to go with that one. It was too on the nose.

Her next option was sort of this cowgirl look, but Bellamy wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

"Okay," she said, whipping out the third sketch. "Then my next idea . . ."

"Why don't you just put on some jean shorts and a white t-shirt?" he suggested. "There's nothing sexier than a girl who looks good when she's casual."

 _Casual,_ Clarke thought, thinking about it. She had some denim cutoffs and a loose white midriff here at home. Finn loved the way those shorts looked on her, and the top was one of her favorites. "That could work," she pondered.

"Damn," Bellamy said, looking through all her sketches again. "You're a good artist, too, you know that?"

She blushed a bit, not sure if her quick little sketches were really deserving of any praise. But when she put her mind to it, she could paint and draw some nice things. She just hadn't had the time to do that for a while now.

"Are you gonna be there on Saturday?" she asked him.

"I don't think I'm scheduled to work," he answered.

"Oh." She looked down at her feet, trying not to let that . . . disappoint her. It was just that . . . having Bellamy there might make her feel less nervous. Because if anything did get too crazy or any of the guys tried to lay a hand on her, he wouldn't put up with that.

"I mean, I _can_ be," he told her, "if you want me to."

"You don't have to," she said quietly, embarrassed that she'd even asked. He spent enough time at that place. His night off was . . . well, his night off. And besides, Finn wasn't going to be there, either, so . . . she was on her own. She could do this.

...

Thank God Clarke had a couple days to rehearse before Saturday, because she felt like she needed it. She finally got the cradle spin . . . sort of, but it still didn't look good enough to go in her routine. Luna put in hours of work with her, and Harper gave her lots of advice on how to _really_ milk her moment in the spotlight. It was all about being _big_ , she said. Big hips, big body rolls, big facial expressions. Nothing could be subtle because she'd be performing for a room full of men who didn't understand subtlety.

When Saturday night came, the butterflies in her stomach turned into bats, and she felt like she was going to throw up as she waited backstage. "I'm so nervous," she confessed, trying to get her hands to stop shaking.

"Relax, you'll be fine," Harper assured her. "Roma, tell this girl she'll be fine."

"You'll be fine, Clarke," Roma said, her eyes fixated on her reflection as she applied her makeup for her own performance later that night.

"I just don't wanna humiliate myself," Clarke fretted, pacing back and forth behind the curtain. "What if I fall flat on my face?"

"Then get up and keep going," Harper suggested.

"What if I can't do that?"

"Then just flash your breasts or something. I don't know."

Clarke cupped her chest, whimpering. "Luna told me not to take anything off tonight."

"Oh, that makes sense," Harper said. "You're the new girl. You're not supposed to show too much. We've got a lot of regular customers here, so you're just . . . wetting their appetite."

"I'm used to being the one who _gets_ wet," Clarke joked.

"Dirty girl!" Harper laughed and gave her shoulder a playful shove. Then she peeked out the curtains and said, "Ooh, but speaking of getting wet . . . check out the supportive neighbor boy."

"What?" Clarke looked out when her friend stepped aside, and her eyes settled on . . . Bellamy. He was sort of wandering around out there, hands in his pockets, looking totally and uncharacteristically awkward for a change.

"He must be here for you," Harper deduced.

Yeah, she knew he was. She hadn't been anticipating that he would show up, even though he'd said he could. She'd figured he would spend his night off holed up with some random girl he felt like boning. But lo and behold, here he was and . . . oh god, he was gonna watch.

"I'm nervous again," she admitted.

"You're fine," Harper reassured her. "If all else fails, just do what they say to do. Picture everyone in the crowd in their underwear."

"Even Bellamy?" she cried.

" _Especially_ Bellamy."

She whimpered, not sure if that would help anything. Although she had seen him in that sheet the other night, so at least she had somewhat of a visual in mind.

When Anya went out on the stage to introduce her, it all got _really_ real, and Clarke had to pinch herself to remember that she was _actually_ doing this. This was no longer practice or even an audition. There were really people out there who were going to watch her dance on a pole, and sure, she wasn't getting naked or anything, but she still had to be . . . seductive.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she whispered, saying her prayers. Though she doubted God paid attention to prayers coming from strip clubs.

Anya said something about this being the big debut of a brand new talent— _talent,_ seriously? She was still learning—and mentioned that this new talent hailed all the way from the great plains of Kansas. "Please give a warm welcome," she said, "to the _Girl Next Door_!"

There was some tepid applause as the music started up, and Clarke felt frozen with panic until Harper literally pushed her through the curtain and out onto the stage. The iconic beats of "I'm a Slave 4 U" accompanied her somewhat timid steps towards the pole. She tried not to squint too hard, but all the lights on her felt very, _very_ bright. She couldn't see anyone in the crowd, which perhaps wasn't a bad thing.

She looked down at her outfit—the white top and jean shorts, just like Bellamy had suggested—and she hoped she looked good enough. Her hair was loose and casual, her makeup was minimal, and she was sort of banking on Bellamy's advice that, sometimes, less was more.

When the first verse of the song started in, she walked around the pole, remembering everything she'd learned about the most basic of moves. Outside step, another outside step, a pirouette. Her eyes were starting to adjust to the lights now, and she could see the faces of some of the men down below the stage. They weren't hollering for her the same way they did for Ontari, but . . . at least they were all watching.

She met Bellamy's eyes briefly as she walked around the pole again, and he _was_ watching her, too, though it looked like he was sort of trying to look away. She held his gaze until she stopped around the backside of the pole and shook her hips from side to side. She could barely make out Harper peeking through the curtains, but she just smiled, knowing her fast friend was back there cheering her on.

 _You got this,_ she coached herself, loosening up a bit. She dropped down into a move that could best be called the slut drop, spread her legs, and that got a bit of reaction out of all of the guys. Then she lay on her back, kicking her legs in the air, trying to smile flirtatiously and make eye contact with as many of them as she could. She rolled up into a sitting position after that and undulated her torso in time with Britney's breathy gasps.

People actually started to cheer.

Next came the part that had her heart palpitating the most, but she didn't hesitate. She reached down and slowly pulled her shirt over her head, revealing the sparkly bra beneath that was just barely holding her breasts in. Everyone suddenly cheered a _lot_ louder. She whirled her shirt like a lasso above her head, tossed it off to the side, and then sat up on one knee, her other leg outstretched to the side. She twirled around the pole, standing up as she did so, making sure to exaggerate every move. She had to stick her ass out first and roll up from there. Because that was what these people wanted to see.

She did one lap around the pole, then hoisted herself up onto it, legs crossed around it for a fireman spin. She slid downward on the chorus, landing a little lower than she'd intended to, and she felt like it was a noticeable mistake, even though the crowd was still watching with interest. The remaining choreography completely vanished from her mind, and she just had to wing it. So she went into a back hook, trying to look as graceful and elegant as she could as she slowly settled onto the ground. She ended up in the wrong direction, though, facing the back, but it was fine since it was the end of the song. Peeking over her shoulder, she smiled and waved sweetly, trying to _really_ play up the Girl Next Door Persona.

"Yeah!" she heard somebody—definitely _not_ Bellamy—yell loudly at the end of her performance. And he was followed by plenty of other yeahs, and plenty of whoops and hollers and _dollars_. Good lord, she felt like it was raining money up on that stage. It was nothing compared to how much money Ontari brought in or how much Harper would make later tonight. But something must have worked about this debut, because the response she was getting was definitely . . . enthusiastic.

Remembering that _everything_ had to look sensual, even after the music stopped playing, she stood up on pointed toes, smiled, and waved sweetly to the crowd. She spotted both Anya and Luna nodding their heads in approval and Bellamy . . . well, Bellamy was sort of half-smiling. And eventually, he even joined in the applause.

When she got backstage, Harper practically pounced on her and squealed, "You did so good! I knew you could do it!"

"Yeah, they liked you," Roma agreed, and she gave Clarke a hug, too.

 _They really did,_ she thought. A couple weeks ago, she never would have envisioned herself doing this, but now that she had . . . it was sort of a rush.

As excited as she was to have gotten her big debut under her belt, she was also exhausted. Stressing out about this had kept her up almost all night last night, and she really needed to go home and sleep. So she stayed for Harper's performance, watching from backstage, then wished Roma luck on hers. Changing into jeans and an old purple NHS t-shirt, she grabbed her stuff and headed out.

Bellamy was waiting with her when she came out of the backstage area. In fact, he was standing right by the door, so she nearly bumped into him. "Oh, hey, stranger," she said.

"Hey." He surveyed her current outfit and said, "I like this."

"Did you like my performance?"

Hesitantly, he replied, "It was . . . effective."

"I didn't think you were gonna be here," she said, readjusting her purse on her shoulder.

"Well, I _did_ say I was gonna keep an eye on you, so . . ." Trailing off, he shrugged.

"Did you?" she asked. "Keep an eye on me?"

"I kept both eyes on you," he admitted.

She felt like she might be blushing a bit, so she was glad it was dark enough in there that he wouldn't be able to notice.

"Everyone's talkin' about you right now," he said.

"Seriously?" It hadn't been _that_ good of a debut, had it? All she'd done was take her shirt off.

"Yeah, you should leave out back," he suggested. And of course, as was the Bellamy Blake tradition, he went with her. She was actually pretty glad he did, too, because back alleys in New York City . . . kind of creepy, especially for a girl. She felt safe with a big strong guy walking with her, though.

"Could you tell I messed up?" she asked him.

"No." He took a cigarette out of his pocket, about to light it when she sent him a sharp look. Rolling his eyes, he put both the cig and his lighter back in his pocket. "Nobody could tell," he assured her.

"Yeah, I tried to disguise it. Just like this one time at our state cheer competition . . ." Before she could finish, Bellamy all of a sudden grabbed her waist and pressed her up against the wall, covering nearly her entire body with his. His face hovered inches from her own, and she didn't know what was happening.

Two guys in dark clothing strolled past, barely even glancing at them.

"Dealers," he explained once they were out of earshot.

 _Dealers?_ she thought. _Like . . . drug dealers?_ She held her breath until he let go of her waist and backed up a bit.

"Sorry," he said. "I just didn't want them to see you."

She nodded, a bit startled, but otherwise fine. "Let's just get outta here then," she suggested, walking quicker now. He stayed right by her side, and for that, she was very grateful.

"You just goin' home?" he asked once they had made it to the front of the club again. "Or do you wanna go do somethin'?"

Tired as she was . . . she was up for going out. She'd been living here for a couple weeks now, and she had yet to really _do_ much of anything other than run errands and come to the club. She hadn't really gone anywhere. "We could do something," she said, figuring someone like Bellamy had to know all the coolest places to hang out in town. Her stomach started to growl, and she found herself _really_ hoping he knew of someplace good to eat.

Luckily for her, Bellamy took her to a pizza place. Papa Mario's or something? Papa Marino's? Whatever it was called, it was kind of a shack on the outside, but he promised it was the best pizza she'd ever have. They sat down in a booth across from each other and didn't have to wait long for their large deep dish pizza to be come out. Half pepperoni, for him, half extra cheese for her.

"Mmm, this looks so good," she said, lifting an extra gooey slice out onto her plate. "But I'm supposed to stay in shape."

"We'll run two miles tomorrow," Bellamy told her, already biting into his slice.

"We're gonna have to." She blew on her slice to cool it off a bit, then bit into it, savoring the delicious, greasy taste. "Mmm," she purred, in food heaven. She hadn't eaten anything this good since she'd been here. "So much better than the Hot Pockets I have at home."

He laughed at that. "Did you have a pizza place in Arkadia?"

"Not really. I mean, we had a Casey's general store, but their pizza sucked." She made a face, remembering how rubbery and unappetizing it was. This, in contrast, was delectable. She took another bite, swallowing before she added, "But we did have the Bison Pub."

"The _Bison Pub_?" he echoed.

"Yes. Real classy place, as the name suggests. But they had the _best_ burgers I've ever eaten. And they were _huge_ , too. Like, my mom used to go in and get the kid's meal version, but I'd just order the adult size and make room." She patted her stomach, feeling like she'd have to make room for all of this tonight, too. Bellamy had claimed they could eat the whole thing, but then he'd gone and ordered a large instead of a medium.

"We had a good burger place back in Trikru, too," he recalled. "But trust me, you haven't _lived_ until you've tried alligator meat."

"Ew," she said, making a face. "No thank you."

"It's good. It tastes like chicken."

"Then I'll just eat chicken." Alligator must have been, like, a Cajun thing, and she was just _not_ that adventurous when it came to cuisine.

"It's really good," he insisted, plucking a pepperoni off his pizza. "It's a delicacy. I'll make some for you sometime."

"Okay, Bellamy," she said, not sure she'd eat any.

"Okay, Clarke."

She laughed, too, really and thoroughly enjoying this until the door opened with a chime, and into the small pizza parlor came a couple familiar faces. That Roan guy—Ontari's biggest fan or whatever—strolled through the door, flanked on each side by his girlfriend, that Echo girl, and, of course, Ontari. He spotted Clarke and said, "Nice dancing tonight."

Clarke tensed up a bit, not really sure what to do, so she just . . . sort of smiled unsurely.

"I don't know," Ontari said as the three of them settled in at a big, round booth meant for a group of people. "I think she needs a lot more work."

 _Of course you do,_ Clarke thought, rolling her eyes. Ontari was starting to piss her off so much that she was seriously thinking about saying something to her, but Bellamy was giving her a stern look as he subtly shook his head. _No_ , his expression said. _Don't say anything_.

So she didn't. She sat there with Bellamy, wishing those other three hadn't come in. Because it felt a lot nicer when it was just the two of them.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9_

Two more minutes left. Bellamy sat downstairs in the first floor laundry room, waiting for his clothes to be done in the washer. He hated laundry, hating cleaning in general, but it had to be done.

The door to the laundry room swung open, and in walked Clarke's less attractive half. Finn's hair was so long, it was practically covering his whole face, so he didn't seem to see Bellamy until he was standing right next to him.

"Oh, hey, man," he greeted.

"Hey," Bellamy returned. He glanced at the knob on the washer, estimating that he was down to about one minute now. Give or take.

Finn set his and Clarke's laundry basket down, and Bellamy couldn't help but notice some bras and panties on top of the pile of clothes. "I'm almost done," he told Finn.

"Kay, I'll wait." Finn took his phone out of his pocket, sat down next to Bellamy, and started chuckling as he read through some texts from someone.

 _I wonder where he was last night,_ Bellamy thought. His girlfriend had gotten up on stage and taken her shirt off for a room full of men, and Finn hadn't been anywhere in sight.

"Are you really okay with Clarke's new job?" he asked, unable to keep the question inside.

Finn was so distracted as he quickly typed out a text that it took him a few seconds to lift his head from his phone and say, "What?"

"Clarke's job," he repeated. "You're okay with it?"

Finn thought about it for a moment and shrugged. "I mean, it's not ideal," he admitted. "But she brought home some money last night, said she had fun."

 _Fun?_ Bellamy thought, making a face. Would it still be fun when all those men were wanting to see more and more of her? Would it still be fun when the novelty of the pole dancing itself wore off and she realized that she didn't have to do a single dance move as long as she took her clothes off?

"And it's safe there, right?" Finn said.

"It's a strip club," Bellamy reminded him bluntly.

"But she says it's safe."

He sighed frustratedly. "As far as strip clubs go, yeah, I guess it's one of the safer ones. But still . . ."

"Well, if she feels safe and she's having fun with what she's doing then . . . I don't really see a problem with it," Finn said.

Bellamy didn't understand that, though. How could he _not_ see a problem with it? How could he not object? Maybe he didn't know about the girls like Ontari, who had started out just like Clarke. Maybe he didn't know about the girls like Roma, who felt like they had no other skills or talents in life than this. But Clarke could sing, and Clarke was artistic, and she had so many other avenues to explore than this one.

The washer stopped chugging, signaling that his clothes were done, and he got up to move them all into the adjacent dryer. He didn't say anything more about it, because clearly there was nothing left to say. It was very clear that he was more worried about Finn's girlfriend than Finn was.

...

Sundays were slow. Bellamy hated working them, but someone had to do it. It was just him behind the bar this afternoon, though, and either Murphy or Niylah would come join him tonight. There were no customers, so at least that meant Clarke and Harper were up onstage practicing. Not that he wanted to stand there helplessly and watch Clarke get even _better_ at working the pole. But Harper was a good person for her to be hanging out with. She had a good head on her shoulders, and out of all the girls at Grounders, she was the right influence.

Anya sidled up to the bar and took a seat, motioning for him to pour her a drink. He gave her a shot of vodka, her favorite, and she downed it quickly. "Saw you here last night," she remarked.

"Oh, yeah, just figured I'd . . . swing by," he said, trying to downplay the fact that he'd only shown up for one reason.

"Hmm." Anya looked at him closely, and dammit, the woman could be so intimidating. She couldn't have hardly weighed more than a hundred pounds, but she was such a boss.

"A little birdie told me you and Clarke went and had dinner last night," she went on, a stern look in her eyes.

He poured himself a shot of vodka, too, feeling like he'd need it. "Let me guess: That little birdie's name was Ontari."

She didn't bother to confirm or deny that. "What are you doing, Bellamy?"

"Nothing. I took her out for pizza," he said. "She lives next door to me. What am I supposed to do?"

"Well, I know what you're _not_ supposed to do." She gave him a warning look.

"No hooking up with her. I got it," he said. "You've had that policy for, what, a year now?"

"Just about."

"And I haven't given you any problems so far, have I?" he pointed out.

She sighed, shoulders relaxing a bit, but that expression on her face didn't change. "Well, I do hope you keep your boundaries with her," she said. "I like having you work here, Bellamy. You're dependable, reliable. You do a good job."

"Thank you," he said.

"But if it comes down to it . . ." She held out her empty shot glass, eyes locked onto his as she warned, "It's a lot easier to replace a bartender than a stripper."

Well. That message came through loud and clear, didn't it? He knew she probably wasn't trying to threaten him or anything, but that was how it came across.

He poured her another drink, and she spun on her stool, got up, and walked off with her glass in hand.

Cautiously, he peeked up onto the stage, where Harper was trying to get Clarke to lift her legs up and kick them both outward in a V. Clarke was struggling, though, and laughing as she failed to do it right.

Her routines were just going to get riskier, and her fans were going to get more demanding. He had to make sure he was always there to keep an eye on her.

...

Clarke knew her first performance was done. And sure, it'd gone well, but that just meant that it was onto the next one. She spent her entire week practicing, hoping that she'd get to dance on Friday or Saturday again. Luna seemed impressed with all the practice hours she was putting in, and she even complimented how far her cradle spin had come.

She felt her strength increasing already, so she tried to get that V-kick move Harper made look so easy. Before she even completely had that, though, they were adding these cartwheel-ish fan kicks into the mix. Both moves required more core strength than she currently had, but she could sort of fake her way through them.

"I wanna know how to do all the spins you and Ontari do," Clarke told Harper as they left the studio one day.

Harper laughed. " _I_ can't even do all the spins Ontari can do. But we'll get you doing some corkscrews and figureheads in no time."

Clarke had no idea what either of those things were, but they sounded cool.

Every night, she took a nice, long soak in a hot bath, hoping to provide her aching muscles some relief. As long as she was in the tub, she felt pretty good, especially when she had enough suds for a bubble bath.

Finn came into the bathroom one night, kneeling beside the tub, and asked, "Comfy?"

"Mmm," she moaned, letting her eyes fall shut. "I could fall asleep here."

"You'll get shriveled."

"That's okay." If she got out, then her legs and arms and abs—surely she was getting some abs now—would all start to hurt again.

"Don't ballerinas do ice baths or something?" Finn asked.

Her eyes flew open, and she really hoped he wasn't suggesting she try that. "Good thing I'm not a ballerina then."

He laughed. "Yeah, good thing." Reaching out, he skimmed his hands over her suds, lifting up a piece and blowing it at her face. She ducked out the of the way, giggling.

"You know, if all those people back home knew how hard we've been working," Finn said, "I think they'd be impressed with us."

With him, maybe, but she was fairly certain they'd all be appalled by what she was doing.

"Hey, speaking of back home . . ."

"Could we not?"

"Your mom was calling."

She groaned, hating the thought of another conversation that would inevitably become an argument or a lecture or something unpleasant. "You didn't answer, did you?"

"No, I just let it ring." He frowned. "How often have you talked to her since we've been here?"

"I don't know," she answered flippantly. "Once a week, maybe." It was more than she'd talked to her dad, so if her parents were competing, her mom should at least feel glad that she had the edge.

"Maybe you should call her back," Finn suggested.

She shot him an angry look.

Holding his hands up almost defensively, he added, "Just to let her know you're doing okay."

She exhaled heavily, dreading it. But the more she avoided phone calls from her mother, the more phone calls there would be. So maybe if she did just talk to her for a few minutes, it would suffice for the week.

That night, after Finn had already gone to sleep, Clarke crawled out of bed, grabbed her phone off the nightstand, and padded out onto her balcony clad only in Finn's large t-shirt and a pair of socks. She sat down, legs folded beneath her, and reluctantly dialed her mom's number.

"Hello?" her mother answered groggily on the third ring.

"Hi," Clarke said unenthusiastically.

"Clarke." Her mom sounded _so_ happy to hear from her, it actually sort of made her feel bad for not feeling the same. "It's good to hear your voice," she said.

Clarke shivered a bit, and listened as sirens wailed a couple blocks away. Could her mom hear that, too?

"I miss talking to you every day," Abby went on. "I really miss it."

Clarke rolled her eyes. Yeah, right. She had her boyfriend, her patients, her gossip-monger friends . . . she had plenty of people to talk to. "Finn said you called earlier," she said, wanting to cut straight to the chase.

"I did," her mother bubbled. "I . . . have some really good news, and I couldn't wait to tell you."

For a second, Clarke let herself get her hopes up that this good news could somehow involve her father, but . . . she should have known better.

"Marcus asked me to marry him," her mom blurted happily. "We're engaged."

 _Engaged?_ Clarke thought in horror. _Engaged?_ Her mom and Marcus Kane, heading to the alter? Man and wife? Her mom wasn't even going to have the same last name anymore? How . . . how was this even happening?

"Congratulations," she forced out, unable to muster up anything other than that. She ended the call quickly and resisted the urge to throw her phone down and watch it smash against the pavement. Shakily, she just sat there, struggling to breathe, feeling like the air was scraping past her lungs. Sure, she'd already known her family wasn't much of a family anymore, but now . . . this news just made it official.

...

Bellamy ignored the text from Pike asking how auditions had gone today, but he couldn't ignore Niylah when she asked the same question once he walked into Grounders. "How'd your auditions go?"

Well, no need to sugarcoat it. "They sucked." He couldn't even remember what they'd been casting for. It was just a bunch of stupid commercials. Maybe he'd get one, but . . . it wasn't like it'd amount to anything.

"I don't know, Bellamy, I feel it," she said. "I feel like your big break's coming."

"We'll see." Niylah had felt that same way last month, and the month before that, and hell, even a year ago. And it still hadn't happened yet.

"Hey, your girl's been back there for hours today," Murphy said, motioning towards the back.

"With Harper?" he guessed. More practice, most likely.

"No, by herself." Murphy shrugged and suggested, "Maybe you should go talk to her. She seemed kinda pissed."

He wasn't sure why that would be. Just yesterday, she'd seemed excited about dancing for the second weekend in a row. What changed? "She's not my girl," he mumbled as he walked past the bar. "Don't call her that." He didn't want Murphy saying that in front of Anya or Ontari or anyone who might get the wrong idea.

Technically, he didn't know whether he was allowed back in the studio room or not—he knew he wasn't allowed in the dressing room, but prior to that no fraternization rule, plenty of girls had dragged him back there. He found Clarke alone, as Murphy had said she was, and she was throwing herself around that pole, trying to do some sort of spin that she didn't quite seem to know how to do yet.

"You know, if you wear yourself out now, you're not gonna be able to put on a good performance tonight," he told her.

She hopped down off the pole, pushing her sweaty hair off her forehead, and claimed, "I'll be fine." Barely catching her breath, she hopped right back up onto that pole, climbing upward a bit. She lost her footing, though, and then lost her grip, and she fell to the floor. "Ow!"

"You okay?" he asked, bending down to help her up.

She got up on her own, insisting, "I'm fine."

Yeah, she said that now, but this was a hard wood floor. She'd probably have a nice bruise on her butt tomorrow. "You're not fine," he said, able to sense that something was just _off_ about her.

"No, I am," she kept on. "Seriously, Bellamy, I'm just blowing off some steam."

Judging by the way she was hauling in those breaths, she'd been blowing off steam for a long time now. "What's wrong?" he questioned, not about to let up.

"Nothing." She gripped the pole with both hands, casting him a sideways glance, then added, "Nothing I wanna talk about."

"Figures," he muttered as she flung herself around.

Landing on the floor again, she flapped her arms against her sides exasperatedly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It just seems like there's a lot of stuff you don't wanna talk about." Whatever this girl was keeping buried, she had it buried pretty deep. And he knew that feeling all too well.

"Fine," she said heatedly. "Well, if you must know, my mom called me last night."

He made a face, not understanding what the big deal was. "Sounds dire." He would have loved for his mom to ever be the one to call him.

"She's engaged," Clarke went on. "I mean, the ink on the divorce papers is barely dry, and already she's moved on. With my high school principal, of all people. Oh, yeah, can't leave out that part. The story doesn't have the same _punch_."

He cringed, suddenly understanding why she'd be pissed. "I'm sorry." He hadn't realized that her parents weren't still together. But then again, how many parents actually were these days?

"It's whatever," she said dismissively, though clearly she couldn't just dismiss it. "It's not like I'm ever going back there."

He frowned, doubtful about that. That town, Arkadia . . . whatever it was like, it was her home. If her parents were there, she'd probably go back someday, just to visit.

"But this guy . . ." She growled, full-out ranting now. And he was more than willing to let her; seemed like there was a lot of stuff she needed to get off her chest. "I don't even know why she likes him. He's this ultra-conservative pray-away-the-gay type. He wouldn't even let me into the homecoming dance sophomore year because I went with another girl. But she loves him. Or so she says."

"Well, she must," he pointed out, "if she's marrying him."

"Either that or she's taking this whole rebound thing a little too far." Clarke wiped the sweat off her forehead, leaning back against the pole for support. "You know what, I'm just—I'm so sick of this," she lamented. "I came here to get _away_ from everything back home, and now it's like, it just—it just _follows_ me."

Any minute, he was sure she was going to just start crying, because there were plenty of tears in her eyes and plenty of hysteria in her voice. "Why don't you just take a break and relax for a while?" he suggested. There was a ratty old couch back in the dressing room. Maybe she could take a nap.

"No, I'm fine," she said yet again. "I just . . ." She took a few deep breaths, seeming to recollect herself, and then looked at him with determination in her eyes. "I have to push it out of my head and be the Girl Next Door tonight," she said, gripping the pole tightly again. She took a few steps around it, then swung herself up into a spin. And just like that, she was right back to practicing.

She didn't have to play that part around him. But even if he told her that, he doubted she'd listen.

Later that evening, when it was time for her performance, Bellamy tried to be as occupied as possible at the bar. There was one guy who couldn't seem to decide what he wanted to drink, so Bellamy was more than willing to make all sorts of recommendations and tell him in excruciating detail exactly what was in each one. But when Clarke took the stage, the guy quickly said, "Just pour me anything," and turned around to watch.

 _Dammit,_ Bellamy thought. With all eyes on the stage, that didn't exactly leave him much to do. He poured that guy his drink, subconsciously noting that Clarke was performing to another Britney Spears song. Gimme More? Was that was it was called?

She didn't _need_ any more of this lifestyle.

Although he thought about slipping into the bathroom, when he looked up at her . . . he was just as bad as the rest of those men, because he didn't exactly look away, either. Clarke had on a blue Giants jersey this time, and even if there were guys in that room who were Jets fans, they were clearly _all_ fans of the way that jersey looked on her. She didn't seem to be wearing any pants, but the jersey was long enough to hit just below her butt.

She didn't seem to be wearing a bra, either, because . . . well, it was just obvious.

Her repertoire of moves had definitely increased since last time, as had the size of the crowd watching her. And as much as he hated being part of that crowd, Bellamy couldn't deny that she _did_ look damn good up there. She had the best body out of all the girls in the club, and she was a good dancer.

At one point, she started to lift up her jersey, revealing matching blue panties underneath. The crowd cheered as she swayed from side to side seductively, lifting her shirt up past her stomach. She just barely gave them a peek at the underside of her breasts, though, before putting her top back down again and shaking her index finger, smiling as she pretended to scold them. There was a noticeable groan of disappointment from all the men, but this was how it happened. The girls never started out by showing a whole lot of skin. They teased what was to come.

"She's good," the guy at the counter remarked once her performance came to an end.

 _Yeah,_ Bellamy thought, staring at her sadly as she walked off the stage. _Yeah, she is._

...

Clarke's night was a full one. It didn't end when her performance did. After that, she was supposed to go join Finn at Cage's apartment, where they were having some sort of party for the agency. She wasn't even sure what the purpose was, to promote their agency or promote someone's product. But Finn had asked her to be there, so that was where she was gonna be.

She drove around for half an hour trying to find the place, ended up in some shadier neighborhoods than she would have liked, and even though she called Finn to ask him for directions, he never answered his phone. Eventually, she just stumbled upon the place. It was a _nice_ apartment complex, definitely nicer than Mount Weather was. She followed the music and flow of people up to the top floor, and when she walked in, she immediately realized how underdressed she was. Finn had just told her to look nice, so she'd put on the only dress that was currently in her closet—a black strapless cocktail dress that she'd figured would work for any occasion. But the other women here were dressed in evening gowns. She didn't even own one of those anymore.

"Hey, you made it," Finn said, reaching out to pull her into his side as she approached him.

"Yep. Sorry I'm late." She'd wanted to stay for Harper's performance again, but because there was no third act that night, Harper hadn't performed until nearly 11:00.

"No, you're fine," he said, kissing her temple. "Here, have a drink." He plucked a martini glass off a tray as a server walked by. A _server_. Seriously. Cage was hosting a party with servers.

She made a face, not sure what a martini tasted like or if she even liked it, and took a sip. "So is this party fun?" she asked him, looking around.

"Yeah, it's good."

 _It's . . . fancy_ , Clarke thought. She really hadn't expected anything this fancy, not when their agency was supposed to be all young and hip and current.

"Hey, see those photos on display over there?" Finn asked, pointing out a display on the far side of the room. "I took 'em."

"Wow." They were beautiful photos, taken down on some beach with the sun rising in the background. Clarke peered closer, feeling like she recognized the model, who was wearing nothing more than a tan bikini covered by a sheer cover-up, all of which looked like the _expensive_ kind of swimwear. So maybe that was why the party was a little high-end. They were promoting a high-end brand. "Is that Raven?" she asked, feeling like she already knew the answer.

"Yeah."

Clarke tilted her head to the side, a bit surprised to see the in-charge chick in the photo when she was supposed to have been the mastermind _behind_ the camera. "I thought she was your boss," she said. "I didn't know she was your muse."

"Well, that's that photo shoot we had to throw together at last minute, the sunrise one," he reminded her. "We couldn't contract a model for it, so she just stepped in."

"Hmm." Clarke stirred the disgusting olives around in her martini and mumbled, "Must be nice to be able to just 'step in' as a model."

"Oh, come on, now. You're sexy enough for that," he said, squeezing her side. "Babe, you're a stripper."

"Shh, don't say that." She didn't want all these people to know.

Cage ambled up to them, apparently having caught the tail-end of their conversation. "Why not?" he challenged. "There's no shame in it."

Clarke wanted to roll her eyes, because she _wasn't_ ashamed, but she forced out a semi-pleasant, "Hey, Cage," instead.

"Clarke," he said. "Good to see you again. I hear you've been keeping busy."

"Yeah, I have." She didn't expect him or any of these people, really, to understand that she was working hard at what she did, that it wasn't easy, that climbing up onto that pole and doing all those spins took a _hell_ of a lot more athleticism than most people thought.

"One of my best friends goes to Grounders all the time," Cage told her. "He said you're great."

"Oh. Well . . . good." She wasn't really sure how to respond, so she added, "I mean, thanks. That's . . . nice of him."

"I'm gonna go get another drink," Finn announced, slipping away for a moment. Clarke didn't want him to go. Pathetic as it was, she wanted to stay by his side the whole time she was here. He was the only one she _really_ knew and the only person she cared to talk to.

Cage kept his eyes on her as he brought his own martini glass up to his lips. "You know," he said, grinning, "now that you're stripping, I might have a job lined up for you."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm an investor with one of the highest-grossing adult film companies in New York," he explained.

Her mind registered what he was suggesting, and she felt like throwing what was left of her drink in his face. "Porn?" she said quietly but incredulously. "You want me to do porn?"

He just smirked and shrugged.

She glared at him, repulsed by the insinuation that she'd be willing to degrade herself so completely. "That's not the same thing as stripping," she informed him.

"Just think about it." He turned and headed away, and she shook her head in disgust. Who the hell did he think he was? Just because he had money and a nice apartment and all sorts of business connections or whatever, what the hell gave him the right to say something so ignorant and objectifying?

Finn had gotten sidetracked talking to somebody else, so she made her way over to him and tugged on his arm. He excused himself from the conversation and looked at her expectantly.

"Can we get outta here?" she implored.

"Already?" He looked around reluctantly. "Party's just gettin' started."

Maybe it was a fun party for him, but it wasn't for her. "Your cousin just told me I'd be great for the porn business," she told him.

"Oh." Finn made a face, but other than that, not much of a reaction. "You're not gonna do it, are you?"

"Of course not." Great, now _he_ was pissing her off, too.

"Good."

Yeah, it was good, but . . . his reaction was underwhelming. "That's it?" she spat. "Aren't you gonna be mad or outraged or something?"

"Yeah, I'll go tell him not to say stuff like that again," he said, giving her shoulder a gently squeeze as he eased past. She turned and watched him head in Cage's direction, but somebody stopped him and started talking, and he got sidetracked.

 _Unbelievable,_ she thought. Maybe once Finn had a night to sleep on it, he'd realize how rude his cousin had been, because right now, he seemed pretty oblivious. She was offended that he was _un_ offended, to be honest. Cage would probably apologize, and since they had their bromance or whatever, Finn would dismiss it as a joke. But it wasn't funny.

Standing by herself, underdressed and not really digging the drink she had in her hand, Clarke felt like she needed to leave. With or without her boyfriend.

...

Bellamy was just wiping down the counter one more time when he heard the door to the club swing open. "We're closing," he grumbled, not about to stay open one minute later than he had to.

"I know."

When he heard Clarke, his head shot up. "What're you doin' out this late?" he asked her. Her performance had been hours ago. He figured she'd gone home. But here she was, all dressed up in this black strapless number. She looked pretty.

"Well, I was trying to find that pizza place you took me to," she explained, sliding onto a stool, "but I got lost."

Papa Marino's? "It's right down the street," he told her.

"Oh." She looked away for a moment, embarrassed, and he chuckled. "Can you just pour me a drink for once?" she begged.

"No."

"Why not? I've already had one tonight."

"All the more reason for you not to have another." He wasn't some saint who'd waited until he was twenty-one to drink. Hell, every Friday night in high school, he'd gotten _wasted_. But Clarke was probably a lightweight, and he didn't need any more reason to worry about her.

"Would you ever do porn?" she blurted out suddenly.

His eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "What?"

"I mean, if it came down to it, would you ever . . . you know . . . do porn?"

He had _no_ idea what had sparked this question, but he wiped down the counter a bit more, contemplating it. "I'd have to be _really_ desperate."

"But you'd do it?"

"Only if there was no other alternative." His mind started spinning, and he grew alarmed when he wondered if it was something _she_ was considering. "Why?"

"Just wondering." She put her hand under her chin, pouting. "I was told I should do porn tonight."

"Oh god, no. Clarke . . ."

"Relax, I'm not gonna do it."

She wasn't? Thank God. Because he had his whole spiel ready to go to try to convince her not to, but . . . well, Clarke was a stubborn girl. "Somebody here told you that?" he asked her. Hopefully not Roan. Bellamy had noticed him in the crowd again tonight.

"No, somebody . . . else," Clarke replied vaguely. "Don't mind me, I'm just in a really bad mood."

"Well, your performance went well," he pointed out. It looked like she'd made more money than last time.

"Yeah," she agreed. "A small miracle."

He stashed the dishcloth he'd been using beneath the counter and asked, "You still upset about your mom?"

"Kind of," she mumbled.

He didn't exactly want to say it, but . . . that wasn't something she was going to get over in a night. She was going to have a stepfather, one she didn't particularly seem to approve of, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. "Well, maybe you need to blow off a little steam," he suggested.

"That's what I was trying to do today, for hours."

He shook his head. "That's not blowing off steam. That's rehearsing. Come on." He whipped his keys out of his pockets and motioned with his head for her to follow him as he came out from behind the bar.

"What're you doing?" she asked as he approached the big double doors that separated the two halves of Grounders. He inserted his key into the lock, pushed one of the doors open, and held it aside as she entered.

"So this is the other half of the club," she said.

"Yep." He flicked on the lights, just the ones above the dance floor and DJ booth, and said, "Check out that dance floor."

She took her high heels off and ran out onto it, sliding a bit. "I bet it gets packed," she said.

"Sometimes, yeah." He walked up to the DJ booth, fiddling around with some of the equipment, hoping it wasn't too hard to use. They just had an in-house DJ, not some acclaimed professional. "I used to bartend over here before they switched me to the other side," he told her. "I liked it." This part of the club could _get_ wild sometimes, but it wasn't designed to be that way. People came to this side of Grounders to dance and have a good time. They came to the other side to have a good time while watching girls dance.

"What're you doing up there?" she asked him as she practically skated around the open floor.

"Just give me a minute." He navigated through some pre-established playlists on the computer, finding a song that he knew she would recognize, and turned up the volume on the speakers as it began to play.

Her eyes lit up.

"You like this one?" he guessed.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, starting to dance around as she sang the words to the first verse. "Oh, I miss old school Taylor Swift!"

Old school Taylor, new school Taylor . . . he wasn't really a fan of either one. But he remembered that this "Love Story" song had been her first major hit, so . . .

Clarke twirled around that dance floor all by herself, arms above her head, singing along to every word. The top of her dress started to fall down a bit, so she tugged it up and just kept on dancing. Looked like she was having fun.

"Do you dance?" she asked him over the music.

"Not well," he admitted, stepping down off the DJ booth.

"You'll dance with me, though, right?" She smiled hopefully.

He smiled right back at her, figuring . . . what the hell? It wasn't like anyone else was around to see them.

" _You were Romeo, you were throwin' pebbles,_ " she sang exaggeratedly, motioning for him to come closer, " _and my Daddy said stay away from Juliet!_ "

She was so . . . playful. So into it. It was contagious. He swayed from side to side a bit, sticking to a basic step/touch motion with his feet.

"Yeah, Bellamy!" she exclaimed.

"I can't believe I'm doin' this." He probably looked like a fool. And this music was a far cry from Kendrick Lamar.

" _Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone!_ " she sang loudly on the chorus, shaking and bouncing all over the place." _I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run._ " She motioned between the two of them theatrically when it came time to sing, _"You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess,_ "and then she threw her hands in the air and spun around a couple times, practically shouting, " _It's a love story, baby, just say—_ "

The music ended abruptly, and they both stopped dancing.

Anya was up behind the DJ booth now, holding the plug to the speakers in her hand.

 _Shit,_ Bellamy thought. He hadn't realized she was still there.

"Time to leave," she told them both sternly.

Bellamy swallowed hard, nodding, and beside him, Clarke just smiled at her boss nervously. Anya didn't smile back. Hell, they'd just been dancing, hadn't even had their hands on each other, but it was clear to Bellamy that, in her eyes, they were still doing something wrong.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

Clarke was still asleep when Finn crawled on top of her in the morning and said, "Guess what?"

She groaned, forcing her eyes open, rubbing the sleep out of them. "What?"

"I get to shoot you this week!" he exclaimed.

She gave him an alarmed look.

"Photo shoot," he clarified.

"Oh." Still, she felt confused. "What?"

"Yeah, your club hired my agency to promote all you girls. Grounders girls." He wriggled his eyebrows excitedly.

"When is this happening?" she asked sleepily. This sounded like the kind of photo shoot that required major sexiness, and right now, she didn't feel very sexy.

"Tomorrow, I think. Or the next day," he said. "Isn't that awesome? I get to take your picture."

"Yeah." She loved being photographed by Finn. He'd taken some sexy pictures of her in high school, too, but those had been just a spur of the moment thing they'd done on a lazy Saturday during Christmas break. (And thankfully, he'd never let anyone else see them.) She'd get to have hair and makeup done for these, though, get to put on some sexy clothes, have all that flattering studio lighting and Photoshop helping her out.

Coordinating schedules among all the different girls who needed to be photographed proved to be a hassle, but they finally found one afternoon—Tuesday—when it would work. Clarke couldn't help but notice that Ontari wasn't there, which she wasn't losing sleep over. It was her, Harper, Roma, and four of the other girls. Anya was there, overseeing everything, consulting with Raven, who introduced herself to them as the creative director of the shoot.

Harper knew she was going to end up in a bikini before the shoot even began, and Roma was right when she predicted she'd end up in a black corset. Clarke was thinking they might go the casual crop top and jean shorts look for her until Anya pulled her back into wardrobe and said, "Okay, swimsuit for her, too."

Raven first tried the Pamela Anderson look, giving Clarke a red one-piece to try on. Anya didn't like it, though, but she did want to try another one-piece. So Raven had Clarke try on a blue one-piece instead. It had a plunging V in the front and a bunch of crisscrossed strings holding her breasts in.

"You feel alright in that?" Anya asked her.

"It's a little . . ." Clarke didn't really get to finish before Anya snapped a picture on her phone and said, "I'm sending it to Luna."

"Do I look okay?" Clarke quietly asked Raven. These swimsuits were skimpier than anything she'd worn up onstage so far, and she couldn't deny feeling a little self-conscious.

"You look great," Raven assured her.

While they were waiting for Luna's response to the picture, Clarke made the mistake of plucking at the strings on her swimsuit, trying to rearrange them a bit. And one of them popped loose. "Oops," she said.

"Okay, so there goes that idea," Raven said. "Let's go ahead and try a bikini."

"A bikini?" Clarke glanced over her shoulder, at Harper, whom Finn was photographing now. She rocked her bikini, looked like she could be on the cover of some fitness magazine. Clarke didn't feel like her body was quite that toned yet; in fact, she was thinking it never would be.

They tried several different colors and styles of bikinis, but finally they decided on a very small black bikini, halter style. She felt like her boobs were falling out, but it somehow managed to hold them in. And at least it wasn't a thong-style one, although it was held together on the sides by the most miniscule of strings. She didn't even know who on set was oiling her up, just that someone was, and at the same time, someone was combing her hair out into loose waves.

The whole thing was kind of a blur until she stepped up in front of the camera, and her boyfriend smiled at her. "There's my girl," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

 _Yep, here I am,_ she thought, trying not to be intimidated. But it was hard not to be. There was no background. Just a stark white wall. These pictures were all about her.

"Pretend it's just me now, alright?" he coached her.

"Okay." She took a deep breath, shut her eyes for a moment, and then opened them, striking a pose. Apparently it wasn't a very good pose, though, because Finn only snapped a couple of pictures before moving her around. "Face diagonally," he said. "Pop the leg towards the camera. There you go. Hands on your hips, both of 'em."

Having her body positioned was one thing, but knowing what to do with her face was quite another. At first, she just smiled like she would for a selfie or a school picture, but Anya came up behind Finn and started barking out orders. "Sexy, Clarke," she said. "Be sexy."

"Oh, she is sexy," Finn said. "Seduce me, babe."

Well, when he put it like _that_ . . .

She tried a few close-mothed smiles after that, which seemed to work better, and when she went back to open-mouthed ones, she tried not to look so wide-eyed. She'd marathoned every season of _America's Next Top Model_ a couple summers ago, and now she was glad she had, because she knew all about smiling with her eyes.

"Gorgeous!" Raven exclaimed. She sat at a computer, looking over all the shots that Finn was snapping. "Keep it up, Clarke."

They tried a few where she was down on the ground after that, but Raven said it made her look too short. So she got back on her feet and played around a bit, turning and twisting both towards and away from camera. She did some flirty ones where she was peeking over her shoulder, and Anya said, "I like those."

It was impossible for her to say just how many photos they took, but she felt like she was in front of that camera for a long time. When Raven announced, "I think we got it," she thought she was done, but all they did was oil her up again and tell her to stay there. Then Harper came back out, squealing with delight. "Ready for double trouble?" she said.

No one else was getting any additional photos, and Clarke couldn't help but wonder what that meant. Harper was definitely one of the top girls at the club, so to get to pose with her . . . that had to bode well, right?

Harper wasn't bi, but she didn't hesitate to put her hands on Clarke's waist, or to rest her head on Clarke's shoulder. She was in her element being sexy, and by that point, Clarke was starting to feel in her element, too. She and Harper did a few overtly sensual poses, mixed in some cute ones, and honestly . . . it was a blast.

All that was left after that was to take one big group shot. Raven wanted to arrange people with hair color in mind, intermixing the blondes with the brunettes, but Anya had her own ideas. She put Harper in the center, up on her spread knees, and put this impossibly cute and petite Asian girl named Vivian to her left. Clarke had assumed that, being the new girl, she'd go in the back row, but Anya put her on Harper's right instead.

"Perfect," she said when she had them all arranged. "They look perfect."

"And we look perfect without Ontari," one of the girls mumbled, causing all of them to laugh.

When they got home from the photo shoot, Finn didn't hesitate to get her clothes off. She was still all oily, so she got in the shower with him to clean off. And to get dirty.

"You were the prettiest girl there today," he murmured against her neck, kissing and sucking on her skin as he fucked her up against the shower wall. "I'm so lucky."

She smiled happily, glad to hear him say that. Because he was photographing beautiful models day in and day out now, and working with a woman who was probably more beautiful than every single one of those models. Yet he felt lucky to have her.

On a day like this, she felt lucky, too.

...

When Bellamy showed up to work on Friday, it was hard not to notice the fucking huge posters covering the windows. One was a group shot of seven of the girls, all clad in barely there swimsuits and lingerie, and the other was just a picture of Clarke and Harper, both of them standing with their legs spread towards each other, hips jutting out to opposite sides. They looked like pictures straight out of _Playboy_ or _Maxim_ or something.

Murphy was standing outside having a smoke, and when he noticed what Bellamy was noticing, he bluntly asked, "Do you like her or what?"

Bellamy shot him a look, reminding him, "She's nineteen."

"Legal," Murphy said. "So do you like her?"

What the hell kind of question was that? Of course he liked her. She was a sweet, nice girl. And hot, obviously. But if he said yes, then Murphy would keep pestering him about it, and if he said no, then he was lying. "It doesn't matter," he grumbled, walking past his friend on his way into the club.

Clarke wasn't dancing tonight, but plenty of people asked him if she would be. They didn't know her name, just referred to her as 'that new girl' or 'the blonde bombshell.' And of course, there were plenty of people who referred to her by her Girl Next Door nickname.

He was pretty sure more people asked about Clarke than asked about Ontari. Which was . . . alarming.

It was a pretty standard night, but since none of the girls were a _major_ draw, Bellamy was able to leave early. He met a couple chicks who'd wandered over from the dance club, chatted with them a bit before leaving, and convinced them both to come home with him.

When he walked out with them, he didn't expect to have anyone waiting for him. But there was Clarke's blue Cadillac, and there she was in the front seat. "Hey," she said, "I had a feeling you'd get done early tonight, and I was kind of craving some of that pizza, so . . ." She trailed off when she finally noticed that he wasn't alone.

"I'll just be a minute," he told the girls, pressing a button on his keys to unlock his car. The girls climbed in, both of them squeezing into the passenger's seat.

"Wow," Clarke said, looking down at her lap. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Those girls weren't just going to _not_ sleep with him just because he was talking to her. She was dressed down in a t-shirt and sweatpants right now, and they probably had no idea she was the same girl on the poster.

" _Two_ girls, huh?" she said. "That's . . . how exactly does that even work? Do you just do one while the other one waits? Do they take turns? Is it like a doctor's office where you call them back one at a time, or-"

"Clarke . . ." He really couldn't stand here and discuss the logistics of threesomes with her.

"Forget it, I'm just being a cock-block, aren't I?" she said, sounding a little . . . sad. Or maybe that wasn't the right word. Let down? She was probably home alone tonight, bored, and she'd thought that he might be free. And if she'd just gotten there ten minutes ago, he would have been.

Even now, with two eager and willing girls sitting in his car, thirsty as fuck for him and impatient to get going, part of Bellamy still _wanted_ to hang out with Clarke tonight. But he thought about Murphy asking if he liked her, and he remembered that suspicious look in Anya's eyes when she'd busted them dancing the other night. And he felt like . . . he had to draw the line. Sure, Clarke was his friend, but she wasn't his girlfriend.

"I just think we've been hangin' out a little too much lately," he told her. "You know?"

"No." She frowned. "Did Anya say something?"

"Kind of." No need to get into it, but maybe if she understood where he was coming from, she'd understand why they couldn't go get pizza tonight. Maybe not again. "I don't wanna get fired, Clarke," he said, feeling bad the second the words left his mouth.

She glanced down again, an unmistakable look of hurt in her eyes and all over her face. "Oh," she said, pouting.

God, he felt bad. He hadn't meant to make it sound like his job was so much more important than her. He really did care about the girl, and he hadn't meant to . . . imply otherwise. "I'm sorry," he apologized immediately.

"No, it's fine," she said, blinking rapidly. Perhaps blinking back tears. She started up the car, backed out of the spot, and drove off, like she couldn't get out of there fast enough.

"Can we go?" one of the girls in his car whined impatiently.

He looked back at the two of them, not sure he could even focus on them now. But if nothing else, maybe sleeping with these girls would take his mind _off_ of the fact that he was now feeling like a piece of shit for hurting a more important girl's feelings. So . . . threesome it was.

...

Bellamy wasn't actually scheduled to work on Saturday. But he switched nights with Niylah, just because . . . he knew Clarke was performing again, and he felt like he needed to be there.

He got there earlier than he needed to and got to work stocking up the bar for the night. Clarke and Harper were both there, too, up on the stage, stretching out. They were both seated in a splits position when they started talking about the photo shoot they'd had the other day.

Bellamy rolled his eyes. That fucking photo shoot. It wouldn't surprise him if Anya decided to try to sell a calendar. And it'd sell well. Guys all over this town could have a scantily-clad Clarke up on their bedroom walls. Fap material, probably.

"I just _know_ they're gonna have us do a routine together," Harper said. "Might as well start working on it now so we can show them some choreography ideas."

"If I can even keep up," Clarke said, pulling her legs in from the splits.

"You'll probably pass me up someday." Harper got to her feet, twirled around the pole once, then said, "Let me go get my heels on. I always feel sexier in heels." She disappeared behind the curtain, and that left Clarke sitting out there on that stage by herself.

Bellamy wasn't about to just _not_ say anything, even though they'd left things awkwardly last night. It'd been so awkward, in fact, that he'd gone back to the girls' apartment and done it with them there. Because he didn't want Clarke to hear it.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked her.

She didn't say anything, didn't even look at him. So . . . that pretty much answered his question then.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," he said. "It's just . . . you have a boyfriend, Clarke, and . . ." He trailed off, figuring it was lame to use Finn as an excuse when he'd already used his job as one last night.

It must have been killing her to bite her tongue and _not_ say anything, but she seemed determined to keep her mouth shut.

"The silent treatment, huh?" he said. "That's mature." There were times when he thought of Clarke as this old soul, and then other times like this where it was blatantly apparent she'd just graduated high school a couple months ago.

Harper returned moments later, putting her heels on as she walked. "Okay, I'm ready to go," she said. "Hey, Bellamy, tell us what looks good, alright?"

"I'm actually kind of—I'm . . . I'm busy," he stuttered, pretending to be all preoccupied with . . . something.

Harper didn't seem to hear him.

He tried not to watch—really, he did—as they danced around that pole together. Harper had lots of ideas for choreography. She wanted Clarke to spin low on the pole while she spun up towards the top. She also wanted Clarke to learn how to do a carousel spin, whatever the hell that was. They got about an hour of practice in when Anya came out of her office and said, "Alright, head to the back. People are gonna start showin' up."

She was right about that. So many people showed up that it almost seemed like Ontari was performing. But they weren't there for Ontari. They were there to see the girls whose posters were in the window. And Ontari wasn't among them.

There was definitely a buzz in the air leading up to Clarke's performance. All the regulars were eagerly anticipating what the new girl would do next, how much skin she'd show this time. Bellamy wished he knew, so that way, if it was too much, he could've tried to talk her out of it. Not that she would listen to him right now. Not that she ever had.

"She's new, she's popular," Anya introduced prior to Clarke taking the stage, "and she's already a fan-favorite. Give it up for our Girl Next Door!"

The whole crowd cheered loudly, and Bellamy saw something he _really_ didn't want to see. Roan was sitting front and center, just like he did for Ontari, and Echo was beside him.

Another quasi-innocent pop song began to play, and for a second or two, Bellamy was relieved. Because when Clarke slowly walked out onto the stage, she was actually more covered up than last time. She had on this red lacy robe, and even though there was a slit in the side that showed off plenty of leg . . . it was just her leg. But as she started twisting the tassels holding her robe together, he sensed where this was going. She would be taking the robe _off_ during this routine. And who the hell knew what, if anything, was underneath.

The robe was short enough for her to spin in, and when she kicked her legs up in that V motion, he saw that she at least had underwear on. He felt like he was the only guy in the room happy that she _wasn't_ completely naked under there.

When the robe came off, it melted from her shoulders like water and pooled at her feet. She had a bra on, too, but it was hardly any bigger than the one she'd worn for her photo shoot.

Since the song she was dancing to was that stupid "Can't Keep My Hands to Myself" song by one of those former Disney brats, the routine contained a _lot_ of touching. She squeezed her breasts wantonly, slid her hand down the inside of her milky white thigh, rubbed her sides seductively, and cupped her ass cheeks when she turned around. The whole show generated a _very_ enthusiastic response from the crowd. A couple of the guys started shouting at her to take it off, and Bellamy wanted to clobber them.

She didn't take anything else off, though. At least not this time. But if there was anything this routine foreshadowed, it was that the time for that was coming. And when she did, he'd probably be standing right back behind this bar, powerless to stop it.

Everyone wanted to get their drinks during the lull in between Clarke's performance and Harper's, so the bar got busy. He and Murphy worked quickly and efficiently, managing to stay out of each other's way and do what they needed to do. Once he finally had a breather, Bellamy looked around the club to see if Roan was still there. It sounded bad, but he sort of wished the guy was there for Clarke _and_ Harper. Or maybe just Harper. That'd make him feel a lot better than if he was just there for Clarke.

Unfortunately, he found Roan, and Roan wasn't alone. No longer on the couch, he'd managed to catch Clarke on her way out of the club. She was completely dressed down in a sweatshirt and leggings now, but that wasn't stopping Roan from talking to her.

 _No,_ Bellamy thought, desperate to put a stop to that. This was how it'd started with Ontari, too, and he'd be damned if he let Clarke go down that same path.

"You got this?" he asked Murphy.

His friend nodded, and Bellamy left the bar.

"You're just so beautiful," Roan was telling her as Bellamy approached. "And so talented. I know you're just starting out, but you blow me away up there."

"Thanks," Clarke said, sounding a bit unsure.

"What's goin' on?" Bellamy asked, busting up their conversation. He stood next to Clarke protectively, willing to throw her over his shoulder and carry her out of that club right now if he had to.

"Roan was just . . . giving me a compliment," Clarke replied.

"And some money," Roan added.

Bellamy's stomach clenched.

"And some money," she added quietly, holding up two one-hundred dollar bills.

 _Oh, fuck that,_ Bellamy thought. He knew Clarke needed money, but that wasn't just a tip Roan was giving her. It was a bribe. "She doesn't want your money," he brazenly told Roan, taking the bills right out of Clarke's hands. He handed the them right back to the guy, resisting the urge to tear them in half.

"Let's let the lady decide what she wants," Roan said smugly.

 _Don't do it, Clarke,_ he begged inwardly, hoping she remembered what he'd told her about how shady this guy was.

"It's really too generous," she said. "Thank you, though."

Bellamy made a face. _Thank you?_ What the hell, why was she bothering being polite to this guy? He had to get her out of there. "Let's go, Clarke," he said, grabbing hold of her arm. He pulled her away fast, quickly escorting her out of the club and out to her car.

"Dammit, Bellamy!" she swore loudly, yanking her arm free of his grasp. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Uh, saving you."

" _Saving_ me? From what?" she spat viciously.

"From that guy!"

"I had everything under control in there," she insisted. "I wasn't gonna take his money!"

"Oh, you weren't?" Sadly, he had his doubts about that.

"No, because you told me to stay away from him, and contrary to what you might believe, I actually _can_ take care of myself."

Throwing his hands up in the air, he backed up onto the sidewalk. "Fine. I won't try to help you out anymore."

"Good."

"Great." He turned and started heading back in, but he'd only taken a few steps when he turned back around and decided, "No, you know what?"

She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Bellamy . . ."

"Look, I know you're pissed at me . . ."

"You're damn right I'm pissed at you!" she shouted. Some of the people walking past them were starting to give them curious looks. "Figure it out, Bellamy. Are you in my life or out of it? Are you my friend or not? And don't give me some magic 8-ball answer, okay? Make a decision."

He stared at her blankly, unable to find the right words. The truth was, he really _didn't_ want to get fired, but he feared the thought of her falling into Roan's trap even more. Not because she was naïve, and not because she was young, but because she was . . . innocent. He knew it'd just piss her off even more if he used that word to describe her, though, so he said, "Go home, Clarke," figuring they could talk tomorrow. Or the next day. Or something. They lived next to each other, so it wasn't like she could avoid him for long.

Huffing in exasperation, she climbed in her car and drove off. Just like she had last night. For the second night in a row, she left that club feeling upset with him.

...

Sleep didn't come easy to Bellamy that night. In fact, it didn't come at all. At 4:00 a.m., he was still tossing and turning, only able to nod off for fifteen minutes here and there before he woke up again. _Fuck it,_ he finally decided. He could get up and read through the most recent shitty scripts Pike had gotten for him.

He sat up on the side of his bed, grabbing his lighter off the nightstand. He tried to dump his cigarettes out of the box . . . but there were none left.

Fucking perfect.

Disgruntled, he got up and headed towards the sliding door to his balcony. Something told him to step outside, so he did.

Clarke was out there, too, apparently just as unable to sleep as he was. She sat with her legs dangling over the edge, her arms coiled around the iron railings. She must have heard him come out, but she didn't even look over at him.

"Where's Finn?" he asked, taking a seat himself. He faced her but dangled his legs off the same way she did.

When she didn't answer for a few seconds, he feared she'd resumed her silent treatment. But finally, she answered, "Asleep on the couch."

So he wouldn't overhear anything they said then. Not that they were having some super-secret conversation or anything, but . . . well, sometimes things got heated. He liked Clarke, but he didn't always see eye to eye with her on everything.

He could've started in with an apology, but . . . that felt kind of meaningless. He didn't want to grovel for her forgiveness. He just wanted to talk to her and have it be easy, the way it was when they'd stood out here for the first time.

"I think I'm gonna quit smoking," he blurted, flicking his lighter on and off.

At last, she looked over at him, but it was a confused look. "Why?"

"Because it's bad for me, remember?"

She looked down onto the street again, parroting him when she pointed out, "But you do a lot of things that are bad for you."

"Yeah, but that's pretty much the worst." He chucked his lighter out onto the street. It went so far that it landed in the yard of a house across the street.

For a second, just a _split second_. . . Clarke smiled a little. That felt good, knowing he could still do something to get that kind of look on her face, fleeting as it may have been.

"I don't want you to be mad at me, Clarke."

"I'm not mad," she said.

 _Really?_ he thought. Could've fooled him then.

It took her a moment, but eventually, she whispered, "I'm lonely."

He frowned, not expecting that. Clarke spent time with him, but she didn't get deep like that. This whole time that he'd known her, he'd felt like she had this wall up, one that he couldn't quite break through. And just because she was saying this . . . he probably still wasn't breaking through it yet.

"I mean, we came here, just me and Finn . . . left everything behind," she recapped. "And he has all these people he works with and his loser cousin. And getting to know people . . . that's just easy for him, you know? He's outgoing, he's sociable. I mean, Finn could move to Bangladesh and manage to fit right in."

He nodded slowly, even though he thought she was giving her boyfriend a little too much credit. Just because he fit in with his work crowd didn't mean he'd fit in _everywhere_. There were plenty of people in New York City who wouldn't care how long his hair was or what he did for a job. They'd just think he was a tool.

"Maybe you don't completely fit in here because you're too good for this place," he speculated, hoping she'd see the truth in that.

"Or maybe there's just something wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you."

"Oh, really? Because that confident girl up on stage is pretty much an act."

"It's a convincing act," he mumbled.

"And you and Harper are pretty much the only friends I've made here, and what do I do? I just keep pushing you away."

She almost had, on more than one occasion, but . . . here he was, out on his balcony at 4:00 in the morning. "I'm right here," he assured her.

Slowly, she turned and looked at him again. There were tears in her eyes. She really _did_ look lonely.

"You have Finn, you have Harper . . ." he reminded her. "You have me."

"Do I?" she wondered.

"Yes." Frustrated as this girl could make him, he wasn't exactly going anywhere. "I'm not gonna leave you to fend for yourself here," he told her, "so . . ."

"But I know I _can_ take care of myself," she insisted.

"You can," he acknowledged. "Doesn't mean you should have to."

Again, she smiled just a little bit. Sort of a relieved smile this time, maybe a grateful one. "You know, we didn't do anything wrong, Bellamy," she said. "If you're worried about Anya and your job . . . I'll talk to her. I won't let her fire you."

"No, just don't say anything. She's just wary, but . . . it doesn't matter." It was probably better to not make a bigger deal out of it than it was. "We're friends," he said, giving her that definitive answer she'd asked for at the club earlier. Clarke Griffin . . . was his friend. And he was hers.

"Have you ever bothered to _be_ friends with a girl before?" she asked tauntingly.

"Nope." He'd done friends with benefits, but he'd really focused more on the benefits part.

"First time for everything," she teased, a genuine smile found its way to her lips.

 _First time,_ he thought, unaccustomed to that. So many of his firsts had been a long time ago. But trying something new with Clarke, even though he didn't know how it was gonna turn out . . . it was kind of nice.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11_

"Five, six, seven, eight!"

When Luna counted them off, Clarke and the rest of the girls strode forward with long, exaggerated steps. It was a packed studio, with everyone, Ontari included, having shown up for the Halloween rehearsal. The song they were dancing to had an eerie, seductive vibe, and Ontari was clearly in her element. Harper stood right next to her, though, keeping up, matching her move for move and earning some approving nods from Anya.

Clarke tried not to look overwhelmed as she walked around her pole, dipping and swiveling whenever she was supposed to, trying to stay on the same beat as the rest of the girls. At last minute today, Luna had completely altered their routine, and while the other girls were making the adjustments just fine, Clarke's head was spinning.

She was late doing one of those V kicks, and Anya noticed it. "Pick it up, Clarke!" she barked.

Clarke stumbled a bit on her high heel, but she regained her balance and got back on count when it came time to fan her legs. But on the floor work part, she accidentally kicked Roma in the head.

"Ow!" Roma yelped.

"Sorry," Clarke apologized, but they both kept going. Like students racing during a rope climb in gym class, they all quickly climbed up the pole before gracefully spinning downward. Luna's choreography called for something called a corkscrew spin, which Clarke wished she knew how to do, because it was such a beautiful move that basically had their entire bodies coiled around the pole, and all the other girls could do it. The more advanced ones like Ontari and Harper could even do it without holding onto the pole, using only the crook of their arm to maintain their position. Since Clarke couldn't yet do that spin, she had to fake her way through that part with a hook spin instead.

Luna stopped the music at the end of the choreography she'd taught them today, and she and Anya nodded their heads in approval. "Good," Anya said, and then she motioned for Luna to follow her back into the office.

While they waited, a few of the girls played around on the poles, showing off tricks that Clarke couldn't wait to learn. Ontari sat down in the corner by herself and got on her phone, and Clarke kept practicing with Harper. "I don't know how to do the corkscrew," she admitted.

"It's a little more advanced," Harper said. "Just really _kick_ your outside leg when you swing into it. Like a karate kick. Send the energy out through your toes." She demonstrated, making it look so easy, and when Clarke tried, she kind of chickened out and ended up swinging right into the pole instead of around it. "You'll get it," Harper assured her, always the cheerleader.

When Anya and Luna returned, they dropped a bomb on all the girls. This year's Halloween routine, they had decided, would only showcase seven of the twelve girls. That sparked some ominous buzzing from all of them until Anya cleared her throat and announced which ones had earned a spot.

"Harper," was the first name she called.

Everyone clapped kindly, and Harper smiled appreciatively. Not that there'd ever been a doubt she would get a spot.

"Vivian," Anya went on.

More nervous but respectful applause.

Anya ran through the list of names, and Clarke noticed that all but one of the girls she was picking were girls who had gone to the photo shoot. When it came time for the last name, she wondered if that might bode well for her, too, but . . . there was still Ontari. Saving the best for last or something like that.

"And our final girl who will be in this year's Halloween show . . ." Anya paused dramatically, drawing out the suspense, before she revealed, "Clarke."

She gasped, truly surprised, and the applause was a little more subdued this time.

" _What?!"_ Ontari shrieked, finally, joining the group. She'd stayed in the corner that whole time, stayed on her phone, acting completely unconcerned. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Congratulations," Anya said, ignoring her.

"No!" Ontari yelled, storming right up to her superiors. "Are you seriously gonna put that little newbie bitch in over _me_? She hasn't earned it! I've been doing this for two _years_."

"The decision is final," Anya said. "We can discuss it privately if you'd like."

"No, let's discuss it here!" Ontari roared, in the middle of a tirade now. "Oh, watch out girls, because this . . ." She squeezed her sides. "This is what we call fat now. Better not eat anything, because they might bench you."

"Ontari, please stop," Luna pleaded.

"No, this is bullshit!" The scorned brunette grabbed her bag, put on a pair of dark sunglasses, and stormed out, still shouting, still complaining about how unfair it was.

 _Too bad, so sad_ , Clarke thought. If the girl really did feel like she was being scrutinized so heavily for gaining just a couple of pounds, then she empathized, but there was such a thing as being a gracious loser, and Ontari definitely was _not_ that.

"Well, I think that's enough rehearsal for one day," Anya decided. "You're free to go."

Harper turned to Clarke and squeezed her hands excitedly. "You slayed the dragon," she said.

"We have to practice that corkscrew." They still had a few weeks to go, but those weeks would fly by, and she had to have her dancing at a higher level by then. She couldn't very well be doing easy spins when the other girls were doing the more advanced ones. Anya and Luna believed in her enough to give her this chance. She couldn't let them down.

"Congratulations," Roma said, coming up to her to offer her a hug.

"Thanks," Clarke said. It was no secret that, even as the longest-running dancer at the club, Roma hadn't gotten a spot this year. But she wasn't chewing Clarke out for it or throwing a fit; she was acting like an adult.

"This is, like, a really big deal for you," Harper said. "People are gonna be hanging out the door trying to get in that night."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, it's gonna be packed. And the money . . ." Her eyes lit up eagerly. "How much did you make last year, Roma?"

"Three grand, easily," Roma replied.

Clarke's eyes widened at the prospect. Three-thousand dollars for one night of dancing? She could get used to that.

"Congrats again," Roma said, giving Clarke's shoulder a squeeze as she walked past.

"Thank you so much." It was good to know that not everyone there shared Ontari's disdain for her.

"This is amazing," Harper raved, unable to stop bouncing around. "I'm _so_ stoked. We have to celebrate."

Clarke wasn't sure whether they were celebrating getting the gig, the money they would make, or just the fact that Ontari had been taken down a peg or two. But it really didn't matter. Any chance to let loose right now sounded good to her.

...

The club cleared out quickly, as it usually did once the girls were done dancing. There were always a few stragglers, and sometimes Bellamy had to call cab for those stragglers. That was the case tonight with the guy who lived down the hallway, Dale. Bellamy felt bad about even serving him, because it was clear the guy had a drinking problem. He sat at the bar now, hunched over, head pressed against his arms, eyes shut.

Bellamy nudged him and said, "I think that's your cab," when a yellow vehicle came to a stop out front.

Groggily, Dale lifted his head and struggled to open his eyes. "Yeah," he said, sliding off the stool. He staggered towards the door, waving over his shoulder. "See ya, Bellamy."

"Get home safe," Bellamy said. It wouldn't surprise him if he got home and found Dale passed out in the stairwell again. It was a common occurrence these days.

He was just about to wipe down the counter and call it a night when in from the dance club stumbled his Taylor Swift-loving neighbor. Clarke's hair was half in and half out of a ponytail, her blue sequined dress was falling off her shoulders a bit, and she looked like actual death. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked her.

Groaning, she stumbled towards the counter. "Harper and I danced all night. Now I'm tired."

"And drunk," he added, not as a question because . . . there was no question about it.

She burped quietly and mumbled, "A little bit."

 _Just a little bit, yeah,_ he thought, barely able to wipe down any of the counter before, all of a sudden, she was climbing up on top of it. "I need a ride home," she said.

"I'll give you one." There was no way he was going to let her drive when she was like this. "Just let me finish up here."

She made it impossible to clean anything off when she lay down on her side, curling her legs and arms in towards her chest. "Comfy," she said dazedly. "Comfy couch."

 _Oh, Clarke . . ._ She was three sheets to the wind. No wonder she couldn't stand anymore. "Who served you?" he questioned.

"Niylah."

"Oh, figures." Niylah had the hots for her, so all it probably took was one flirty smile from Clarke, and she was putty in her hands.

"Guess what?" Clarke turned over onto her stomach, and he noticed that the back of her dress was becoming unzipped. "They're only using seven girls in the Halloween show, and I got picked."

"Oh, yeah?" He zipped her back up again, his fingers accidentally grazing her smooth skin as he did so. "Let me guess: you, Harper, Ontari . . ."

"Nope, not Ontari. I took her spot. Isn't that great?"

Well damn. The Halloween show was a big deal. For Ontari to not be in it was shocking in and of itself, but for them to replace her with Clarke . . .

Holy shit, they were promoting the hell out of her.

"Isn't that _great_ , Bellamy?" she repeated, louder now.

"That's one word for it."

Kicking her legs up behind her, she said, "I wonder what my parents would think if they knew how much money I'm gonna make off of that."

"They'd probably be mortified by how you're making it," he pointed out.

"True." Turning over, she settled in on her back, staring up at the ceiling, and she fell silent for a moment as she thought about something. He wiped down any open counter space around her, figuring it was better than nothing.

"You know, me and my parents . . . we used to be, like, the perfect family," she recalled, sounding wistful. "We had the nicest things and the nicest house. Vacations every summer."

Hell, he'd never had any of that. "Sounds cushy."

"It was." She burped again, then went on, "My mom's a doctor, and my dad owned his own business. But then everything just changed, and now . . . we're not even a family anymore."

He frowned, putting his towel away, wondering what the story was here. With her being as tipsy as she was, it seemed like the ideal time to ask. "What's the deal with you and your parents?"

"They ruined my life," she said dramatically.

"Exaggerate much?"

"They did, though." She closed her eyes momentarily, like she might fall asleep.

"So you hate 'em?" he concluded. Wasn't uncommon. Lots of girls in this town hated their parents.

"No, I still love them," she said. "Deep down. But . . ." She hesitated, glaring up at the ceiling almost resentfully. "I don't _like_ them anymore."

 _Interesting distinction,_ he thought, feeling like he could relate. "Why are you so vague, Clarke?"

"Well, what-" She turned back over again, and her dress rode up pretty far on her thighs. "What about you, huh? You don't tell me much about yourself. What do I know about you? Actor, alligator meat, little sister. Master in the sack."

His eyebrows shot upward.

"Those were Roma's words, not mine."

He laughed a bit, glad to hear that that was the reputation she was spreading about him. "Well, what do you wanna know?"

"Anything. I feel like you're just . . . sssskimming the ssssurface."

God, what a slur that was. Clarke had either had way too much to drink, or she wasn't accustomed to drinking and couldn't hold her liquor. Peering down at her, he said, "You're drunk. Anything I tell you, you won't remember anyway."

"Yes, I will." She turned onto her back again, kicking both legs in the air. "Wait, where's . . . Bellamy, where are my shoes?" she whimpered helplessly.

"They're on your feet."

"Oh." She cringed, groaning.

"Come on. Let's get you home." He held out his hands, willing to help her up off the counter, but she pushed him away, wanting to do it all herself. She practically fell off, though, and he had to catch her to hold her upright.

"Oh!" she yelped as she clung to him for support.

"I got you," he assured her, putting one arm around her waist. "Come on."

She leaned against him, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and he figured he might have to carry her up to her apartment. There was no way she could do all those stairs like this, and the elevators barely ever worked.

Clarke couldn't find her keys, so he had to wait five minutes while she looked around her purse. Finally, he got fed up with it and just grabbed her purse from her, looking through it himself. He found them right away, started up the car, and drove her home. She fell asleep, slumped over in the passenger's seat, and when they got home, he wasn't sure he'd be able to wake her up.

"Come on, Clarke," he said, practically lifting her out of the car.

"No," she groaned, her whole body little limp in his arms.

He was just about to hoist her up and carry her when she started walking on her own again—meandering, really; there was no possibility of going in a straight line for her. Somehow, with his help, she got up the stairs, and they walked together down the hallway slowly. She drooled on him a little bit, but he'd dealt with worse.

He knocked on the door to her apartment, and Finn came to answer it, looking like he'd been asleep. When he saw Clarke looking the way she did, he rubbed his eyes and asked, "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she just drank too much," Bellamy told him, handing Clarke off. "Lay her on her side, move a trash can in beside the bed."

"Yeah," Finn said. "Thanks, man."

Clarke sort of just moaned as her boyfriend shut the door.

 _Take care of her,_ Bellamy thought, trudging a little further down the hall to his own apartment. _She's gonna feel it in the morning._

...

Thank God for the trash can next to the bed. Clarke needed it from the moment she woke up. She lurched over the side of the bed, practically regurgitating her whole body. It was disgusting, smelled gross, and all in all, she felt horrible.

"Oh god," she groaned, wishing it would stop. Just when she thought it was over, it seemed to start back up again. That trash can was a goner.

"Are you gonna be alright today?" Finn asked her as he came to stand in the doorway. It was almost as if he didn't want to get any closer.

"Yeah, I just gotta . . . do this," she said, feeling bad for him. It wasn't fun to listen to somebody throwing up, and she probably looked like such a wreck right now.

"I haven't seen you drink so much since junior year. Dax's party."

"Oh, Dax's party," she recalled hazily. "Yeah."

"You were a mess."

"That was bad," she agreed. "My parents didn't know what was wrong with me the next morning. They thought I was either hung-over or pregnant. Either way, they weren't happy."

Finn chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, be careful about how hard you go," he cautioned. "You shouldn't drink that much unless you're out with me."

He was probably right, but she and Harper had started doing shots, and she'd sort of just lost track of how many she'd taken.

"Good thing Bellamy was there," Finn said.

"Yeah," she agreed, but something about the way he said it . . . it was almost like he didn't _really_ think it was a good thing.

...

 _Maybe I should grow my beard out,_ Bellamy pondered as he headed out for auditions that morning. So many of these commercials Pike had him auditioning for were for razors and shaving creams. It might help if he showed up with actual proof that he could grow facial hair.

He rubbed his chin as he veered through the parking lot towards his car, glad that he'd at least let his scruff grow out for a couple of days.

"Hey! Bellamy!"

He turned around when someone called his name. Clarke's boyfriend was roaming through the parking lot with a camera in his hand. What the hell had he been taking pictures of now, junker cars?

"Hey, Finn," he said, forcing himself to sound friendly, even though he was sort of in a rush. "How's Clarke?"

"Oh, she's . . . miserable," Finn replied. "Been pukin' all morning."

"Yeah, I figured." He'd heard some of it earlier, and it hadn't been pleasant.

"She doesn't really drink a whole lot," Finn went on. "You know, a beer here and there, but . . . she's kind of a lightweight."

"I noticed." Bellamy checked his watch, knowing he had to leave now if he wanted to get to the audition in time. "Hey, listen, I really gotta go," he said, "but-"

Obliviously, Finn just kept talking. "You didn't get her drunk, right?"

Bellamy frowned. "What?"

"Well, I know you bartend at the club, and I just wanted to make sure . . . you didn't, like, force her to drink anything. Did you?"

Finn was trying to sound all calm and friendly when he asked that, but it wasn't a friendly question; it was an accusatory one. He thought he may have taken advantage of Clarke last night. If the guy knew anything about him at all, he'd know that Bellamy would have rather gotten hit by a bus than act like such a fucking creep. "I would never do anything like that to Clarke," he told Finn sternly. "To anyone."

"Right," Finn said. "Sorry. I just had to ask. I didn't mean to . . . offend you or anything."

"Well, you did," Bellamy informed him. He didn't bother to assure him that it was alright, because it wasn't. Hell, _he'd_ been the one to bring Finn's girlfriend home to him last night, safe and sound.

He turned and walked away coldly, not caring if there was animosity between them now. Clarke's boyfriend . . . Bellamy just didn't understand what she saw in him. Based on everything he'd seen so far, the guy wasn't all that great.

...

"Thrift store, thrift store . . ." Clarke sang as she and Bellamy strolled up to what looked like a very large garage sale outside a very large building. They'd just finished another mile-run, and she was tired, but not so tired that she had to go home just yet. Bellamy had told her they could get some great deals today. He'd seen fliers up advertising this gigantic sale, because apparently the thrift store actually had a surplus and needed to make room. Worked for her. Finn had yet to see the first paycheck from his job, so they were living off of what she'd been earning. Bargain shopping was very welcomed.

"You can actually find some pretty good shit here," Bellamy said, picking up a new lighter off of a table of odds and ends. He set it down quickly, though, and assured her, "I haven't fallen off the wagon."

"Good." It was nice not to smell that smoke smell on his clothes. He probably didn't realize it, but _not_ smoking made him even _more_ attractive.

"So Finn said he talked to you the other morning," she said as they casually strolled through the tables of items up for grabs.

"Yep," Bellamy muttered.

Just because she was nosy, Clarke inquired, "What'd you guys talk about?"

He sighed, grumbling, "It doesn't matter."

She frowned, because the way he said that . . . made it seem like it _did_ matter. "What?" she asked.

His back to her as he surveyed a pair of tennis shoes, Bellamy shrugged. "He wondered if I took advantage of you the other night."

" _What_?" She blinked rapidly, trying to understand what would have possessed Finn to even think for one second that the guy she went running with every other morning would do something like that to her.

"It kinda pissed me off," Bellamy admitted, setting the shoes back down.

"I'm sorry," she said, walking along beside him. "Finn's just . . . protective."

Bellamy grunted. "Since when? He lets you get up on a pole and dance. How protective can he be?"

"Well, this one time, at a basketball game . . ."

"Oh, one time at a basketball game," he mimicked.

"No, seriously, this guy from another school tried to look up my cheerleading skirt. And Finn just came up and knocked him right out. It was great. I mean, he got suspended for a couple days, but other than that, it was great."

"Totally worth the sexual harassment, huh?" he joked darkly.

"Oh, come on, you know what I mean." She wasn't trying to make light of a situation that had, in fact, been serious. "I'm sorry he asked you about that, but . . . he and I have been together for two years now. It's really serious."

"Oh, is it now?"

"Yes." God, he seemed more than a little moody today. Maybe his latest auditions hadn't gone well or something.

"What's the story with you and Finn anyway?" Bellamy asked, stopping to examine some ceramic plates, most of which had at least a few chips in them. "How'd you guys get together?"

"Well . . . he didn't pay much attention to me for two years," she recalled. "But then junior year, I sort of . . . filled out a little bit more and-"

"He noticed you when you got breasts?" Bellamy cut in.

"Well, I always _had_ breasts. They just got bigger. And we started hanging out after football games and stuff, and then it just . . . I don't know, continued from there, naturally. And now it's a love story."

"Hmm." That one little sound was all she got out of him as a response, but he just sounded sort of skeptical still. Which bothered her a bit, but . . . what could she do? Bellamy didn't strike her as the type of guy to have ever been in love before, so maybe he just didn't understand.

"Finn had plenty of offers, you know," she went on. "Every girl in school liked him."

"Why, because he played football?"

"And he was funny and nice. He had other girlfriends before me, but once he and I started up . . . it's just never been in doubt. He's the one for me."

"The one?" Bellamy echoed, cocking his head towards her as he put the plates down. "You believe in that crap?"

"It's not crap." She pouted, a bit miffed that he would be so dismissive of the notion. "Look, just because you haven't found the one . . ."

"I don't wanna find the one," he argued.

"Fine, then stick with your crusty cougars and kinky threesomes."

"Hey, I'll have you know, it takes skill to do a threesome."

She rolled her eyes. " _Whatever_ , Bellamy. I just don't know why you're _so_ determined to cast doubt on the most important relationship I've ever had in my life."

"I'm not," he said, walking onward. "I just . . . I don't know, never mind."

Dropping it was probably a good idea, so she slinked along behind him, only halfheartedly looking over all the items on sale. There was a hand-held can opener. She really did need a can opener.

"Do you even have a winter hat?" Bellamy asked her suddenly, turning around with a black beanie in hand.

"Yes," she said. "I just didn't bring it with me."

He walked up to her and put the hat on her head, pulling it down over her ears. She smiled dopily, and he shook his head. "You look ridiculous."

"Gee, thanks." She took the hat off and checked the hand-marked price tag. Hey, three dollars. That wasn't bad at all. She could totally get this hat for three dollars.

"You need gloves, too," he said, snatching up a pair from the nearest table. "It's gonna start gettin' cold out."

"I'm from Kansas, Bellamy," she reminded him. "If I can survive a Midwest winter, I can deal with the cold here."

"You still need gloves," he said. "A coat. Do you have a coat?"

She didn't have a coat yet, but she wanted to get a nicer, warmer one, so she lied, "Yes."

"I don't believe you," he muttered, but when it came down to it, he let the coat idea go and just bought the hat and gloves for her. She didn't ask him to pay, didn't even think he was going to. But when they got up to the register, he just whipped his wallet out of his pocket and forked over some cash before she could stop him.

Where did this come from, she wondered, this care-taker instinct that seemed to be so deeply engrained in Bellamy Blake? Perhaps it had something to do with his little sister. Maybe he'd been the one to watch over her a lot growing up.

"So you'll talk about your boyfriend but not your parents," Bellamy noted as they walked back. They could have run, but neither one of them was in the mood for another mile. Plus, she had this plastic sack with her new hat and gloves in it now.

"I talked about my parents the other night," she reminded him.

"You didn't say much."

"Yes, I did."

"You don't remember."

Dammit, he had her there. She really _didn't_ remember much. "It's easier to talk about Finn," she said, twirling her sack around. "He's been good for me. Without him, I never would've come here. I'd still be stuck in Arkadia, living with my mom and my future stepdad." She rolled her eyes, still pissed off about that.

"I thought you said it was a nice house, though," he reminded her.

"It is. Old, but nice."

"Nice house, nice car . . ." He shrugged. "Doesn't sound so dire to me."

"That's because you don't know . . ." She trailed off, sensing that he was doing this on purpose, trying to lure her into saying more, more than she wanted to.

"I don't know 'cause you don't tell me," he said. "That's alright, though. I'm sure you will. Someday." He smiled at her and broke into an easy jog, and reluctantly, she picked up the pace to stay close to him.

 _Someday_ , she thought as she trotted after him. _Maybe_.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12_

Because she needed more practice than the six other girls in the Halloween show, Clarke made arrangements to do some extra work with Harper prior to their group rehearsal time. When she showed up, Harper was already there, sitting in a splits position on the floor to stretch out. She had an open textbook in front of her and was reciting some definitions while covering up the answer on the page. "Hey!" she said. "Okay, we are gonna work on this corkscrew spin, I promise, but do you think you could quiz me first? I have a huge test tomorrow."

"Sure." Clarke sat down beside her, getting a sense of _déjà vu_. How many study nights did she and Monty have over the years? Jasper never studied, but he and Maya had joined them sometimes.

"Here, see if you can read my handwriting," Harper said, handing her a hastily scribbled page of notes.

"Uh . . . okay." The handwriting was sloppy, but the words were so long and confusing that Clarke couldn't even pronounce them. It was all medical stuff, things her mom would have known. "What's-" Before she could even give Harper the first word to define, she heard shouting arise from Anya's office. Angry, entitled shouting. _Yet again_.

"Ontari?" Clarke guessed.

"Yeah, she's been back there for ten minutes already." Harper rolled her eyes.

Clarke had no problem ignoring her, except for the fact that she became impossible to ignore when she stormed out of the office, crying. "This isn't fair!" she yelled. "Please, just _please_ put me in the show. I've worked so hard; I've done so much for this place."

Anya came out of her office, unflinching, arms across her chest.

"Please!" Ontari begged again. "I had it done days ago. The doctors said I'm good as new. I can do this."

Clarke frowned, perplexed. Doctors? What the hell was Ontari talking about?

"I'll lose _ten_ pounds if you want me to," she promised. "Please, just put me back in the show."

"You were never in the show," Anya told her bluntly. "Not this year."

"Yeah, because of _her_!" Ontari growled loudly, pointing her finger at Clarke. Still crying, she shook her head, let out a few pathetic whimpers, and stomped off.

"Look away, look away," Harper whispered, and Clarke did just that as Anya slipped back inside her office and shut the door again.

"What was that about?" Clarke wondered aloud.

"I don't know for sure," Harper said, "but . . . the other day at the group rehearsal, I heard her throwing up in the bathroom."

That coupled with the emphasis on her weight lately . . . maybe it had driven her to do something drastic. "So you think she's bulimic or something?"

Harper shook her head sadly. "No."

Well, if not that, then . . .

 _Oh_. Clarke's mouth gaped as it dawned on her. Weight. Doctors. Throwing up. All signs pointed to one thing.

When she and Harper were done practicing, she went out to the bar, happy to see that both Bellamy and Niylah were there. Niylah would hopefully pour a little alcohol into her club soda for her, and Bellamy . . . well, he was Bellamy.

"What do you guys think is going on with Ontari?" she asked them.

"Who knows?" Bellamy snorted.

"She's being eclipsed," Niylah said, reaching out to cup Clarke's cheek. "By you."

That was nice of her to say that, but Clarke knew she was nowhere near Ontari's talent level yet. "Harper said she heard her puking the other day. And when she left, she was saying something about doctors and having something done."

Niylah and Bellamy exchanged a look.

"Did she . . ." Clarke didn't really want to say it, but . . .

"Yeah, I'm betting Roan just financed her abortion," Bellamy said. "Probably his own kid."

"That's awful," Niylah empathized.

Even though Ontari had been insufferable these past few weeks, Clarke couldn't deny feeling bad for her if their assumptions were right. She was still a pretty young girl herself, and if what Bellamy had told her was true, she'd just gotten in over her head here.

"New York City just keeps getting better and better, huh, Clarke?" Bellamy said.

"Yeah," Niylah added morosely, "there's some new horrible thing every day."

Clarke looked down at the liquid in her glass, then up at Bellamy. He was watching her, sort of intently, but when their eyes met, he quickly looked away.

...

Sometimes, if the sex was decent, Bellamy actually got the phone numbers of the girls he slept with. The two girls he'd had the threesome with the other night definitely were down to fuck again—they'd made that perfectly clear—and he just figured . . . why not? Something to do, something to pass the time.

They were smoking, which wasn't great for him since he was trying to stay away from that, so he told them to put out their cigarettes before they started. They complied, then took turns taking each other's tops off for him. They weren't the most shapely girls on the planet, but they'd do for tonight.

"Your turn," one of them told him.

He peeled off his shirt, dropping it on the floor, and stood before them, letting them decide what they wanted to do first. Lucky for him, one of them reached out and undid his jeans, pushing them down to mid-thigh, and the other released his cock from his boxer briefs. They both got down on their knees, and the more talkative one took the initiative to put the head of his cock in her mouth. The other one rubbed her mouth against the side of his shaft, close to the base, using her tongue to trace the veins on the underside.

Any other guy would have probably killed to be in his position right now. He had two relatively attractive women sucking him off at the same time. It wasn't a bad deal.

But it wasn't as great as he'd hoped it would be, either. Neither one of them was particularly mind-blowing when it came to giving head, and they seemed disappointed that his cock wasn't getting harder faster.

And if that wasn't enough, it certainly didn't help him focus when he heard music coming from next door. Clarke must have been out on her balcony again, because he heard her strumming her guitar.

"Oh, that music doesn't fit the mood," the girl who'd been sucking on the head of his cock complained. She got up, walked over to the sliding door, and went out in only her bra and skirt. "Hey, Madonna, you wanna cut it out? We're trying to get it on in here," she snapped.

 _Oh, hell, no,_ Bellamy thought, backing up from the girl still down on her knees. He quickly pulled his underwear and pants back up, then pulled her up by the crook of her arm. He grabbed the loud girl by her wrist and ushered them both towards the door.

"What're you doing?" one of them shrieked. "Bellamy!"

"You guys gotta go." He tossed their shirts at them, then opened the door and practically shoved them out.

 _Good fucking riddance._ He shouldn't have dipped into that cookie jar again.

The bulge in his jeans wasn't too noticeable, and he didn't feel like he had to jack off in order to get comfortable again. So he re-zipped his jeans, put his shirt back on, and walked out onto the balcony.

Even though she had a chair out there to sit on, Clarke was curled up in the corner, leaning back against the railings, lightly strumming out some notes. "Classy girl, Bellamy," she remarked sarcastically.

"I made her leave," he said, "both of 'em."

"Both?" she echoed. "So it was another threesome, huh?"

"Yeah." Sometimes those things were more hassle than they were worth, though. There was a lot of pressure when you were one guy with two girls. You had to make sure you weren't paying more attention to one than the other, had to make sure they both got off, preferably before you did. It was a lot easier just focusing on one chick at a time.

"Can I come over?" he asked.

"That depends. Are you gonna scale the side of the building again?"

"Hell, yeah, I'm gonna scale the building." He swung his leg over his balcony, carefully stepping down on the small ledge, and made sure he had a good hold on the upper ledge before he crept over to her place. Even though he wasn't really worried about falling, he still knew that hanging three stories up on a building with nothing but concrete below him was really stupid thing to do, so he was relieved when he felt the wooden planks of her balcony beneath his feet.

Yawning, he sat down beside her, wondering if Finn was home tonight, or if it was just her.

"Sing something," he told her. So far, he'd only gotten to hear these little sneak peeks of her voice, but it was good. He wanted to hear more. "Not Taylor Swift," he added.

"Hmm, okay." She sat up straighter, positioning her hands on the chords, and she began playing a slow, melancholy beat. He didn't recognize what song it was until she started singing.

" _For a minute there, I lost myself. I lost myself._ "

A Radiohead song. Go figure, the girl actually had some decent musical taste hidden beneath layers of pop infatuation.

She closed her eyes and moved her knee up and down to keep the beat. _"For a minute there, I lost myself. I lost myself."_

Damn. The way she closed her eyes and threw her head back like that when she hit those notes . . . it was beautiful. Just as beautiful, if not more so, than her dancing was.

She smiled, singing no more than that, but . . . that was cool. He'd enjoyed it.

"You wanna try?" she asked him.

"I don't know how to play."

"Here." She handed her guitar over to him, showed him how to position it on his lap, and gave him her pick. He held that between two fingers, strummed the strings randomly, and she said, "No, you gotta . . . here, I'll help you." She took his left hand in hers, positioning his fingers on certain strings, pressing down with some. He had no idea what she was doing, but he figured it had something to do with chords. All the strings looked the same to him, so he didn't have any clue what sound she was trying to get him to produce. But when she said, "Go ahead," and he strummed again, it sounded a lot better this time.

"I played guitar," he said.

"Amazing, huh?"

"Yeah." He handed it back to her, sort of wishing he _did_ know how to play. That way, he could play while he sang. They could go do shows at coffee shops and stuff and rack up quarters in her guitar case.

"You're really good, Clarke," he told her, even though he knew he'd said it before.

"I'm average," she corrected modestly.

He looked her right in the eye, unable to suppress a lazy grin. "I don't think you could be average if you tried."

She stared back at him, smiling, probably blushing, but it was too dark to tell.

It was sort of a nice moment, but unfortunately, it was ruined when a loud popping sound rang out a couple blocks away. He and Clarke both startled, but he'd heard that sound in this neighborhood before.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Get inside," he told her, quickly helping her up. They went into her bedroom and shut the door, but Clarke pulled back the curtain to look out the window.

"Were those gunshots?" she asked.

"Yeah." He shut the curtain all the way and grabbed hold of her shoulders. "Stay away from the window," he said, moving her behind him. Whatever was going on wasn't going on right next door or anything, but still it was best for her to keep to the interior of her apartment for now.

"That's kinda scary," she said, setting her guitar down on the bed.

"Yeah." The first time he'd heard gunshots, he'd lain awake all night, unable to fall back asleep. Seemed like he heard them a couple times a year now, sometimes way off in the distance, sometimes too close for comfort.

Wanting to distract her, he spotted a photo he hadn't seen before on her nightstand, her and Finn and three other people standing outside their high school, all of them in white graduation robes. "Who are they?" he asked, picking up the frame.

"Oh, those are my friends from high school," she said. "Monty and Jasper and Maya. Jasper's the one with his arm around Maya. They're dating."

"And Monty's the fifth wheel in the middle, huh?"

"Yeah." She came up beside him, looking at the picture, and softly said, "They're all in college now."

"In Kansas?" he asked.

"Yep. K-State. Go Wildcats."

"No. Go Tigers," he corrected.

"You do realize nobody likes LSU except for people in Louisiana, right?"

"And you do realize nobody knows K-State besides the people in Kansas?" he retorted.

She rolled her eyes and took the picture from him, looking down at her friends' faces wistfully. "I miss them," she admitted.

He hated to break it to her, but after graduating, it was hard to keep the old high school crew together. Hell, he didn't talk to _anyone_ he'd been friends with in high school, and he'd had a lot of friends.

Although he had a feeling Clarke and her friends would grow pretty far apart this year (and probably already had), he was about to assure her that they could still stay close because of all the social media crap nowadays. But he didn't get the chance, because the front door opened, and Finn came in, saying, "Holy cow, babe, did you hear those gunshots?" He almost sounded excited about it.

Clarke set the picture down and headed out into the hallway to greet him. "Hey," she said, hugging him. "I'm glad you're home."

"Yeah, I think I'm better off stayin' in tonight." Finn looked over and noticed Bellamy standing in the bedroom and slowly released Clarke from the hug. "Hey, man," he said.

"Hey," Bellamy returned. Shit, this probably looked weird, didn't it? Him and Clarke, alone in the bedroom, not doing anything wrong, but still . . .

"Uh, Bellamy is interested in playing the guitar," Clarke said, "so I was trying to teach him, but then we heard those shots, so . . ."

"Yeah, I can just head home, though," Bellamy said. Maybe he could watch some TV, look over a few more scripts, rub one out before he went to sleep.

"No, you should stay," Finn said. "Thursday Night Football. We could catch the second half of the game."

Thursday Night Football? With Finn? That sounded . . . kind of lousy, to be honest. Bellamy hated watching games with former quarterbacks, because that was all they paid attention to. Never mind the fact that the running backs and receivers were often the ones out there gaining the most yards and taking the most hits.

For whatever reason, he found himself saying, "Yeah, sure," and then Finn started babbling about popping popcorn.

As it just so happened, the game broadcast on TV that night was the New Orleans Saints versus the Kansas City Chiefs. Of course Finn was rooting for the Chiefs, and he didn't seem to understand why Bellamy would _possibly_ root for the Saints until Clarke told him, "He's from Louisiana."

"Oh." Finn started to ask him about that when his team's quarterback fumbled the ball, and the defense picked it up. Scoop and score. Bellamy did a small but celebratory fist pump at his side, because his team was now ahead by six.

Clarke mostly relegated herself to the kitchen while the game was on. She did pop some popcorn and brought it to them in a big bowl, but after that, she looked like she was trying to cook something else. Mozzarella sticks, maybe? Breadsticks? He wasn't sure, but at one point, the oven sort of started to smoke, and she had to take whatever was in there out and trash it.

"Quarterback run here," Finn predicted when his team had the ball on the five yard line.

Just to be different, Bellamy said, "Pass play." And even though it was a stupid play call when they were so close to punching it in the end zone, the Chiefs actually did attempt a fucking pass. And it was intercepted.

"Fuck," Finn swore. "Come on, Chiefs." His spirits picked up when one of the refs through a flag.

"Offensive holding," Bellamy muttered.

"No, defense."

Clarke came and sat down next to Finn, squeezing in between him and the arm of the couch, right as the ref made the play call. Holding on the offense. Fuck yeah.

"This game's not goin' our way, babe," Finn told her, slipping his arm around her waist.

"Oh, I don't really care."

 _I don't, either,_ Bellamy thought. Sure, he'd prefer to see the Saints win, but . . . it was the NFL, the No Fun League. College football was way better.

As the third quarter came to a close, Finn got a phone call. He said, "Oh, it's Raven. I gotta take this," and got up from the couch, heading into the bedroom as he answered, "Hello?" He shut the door, and Clarke pouted.

"So much work stuff," she lamented. But as quickly as that frown appeared on her face, she got rid of it and changed the subject. "So who do you think is gonna score next, the Spartans or the Chiefs?"

"It's the Saints, Clarke," he corrected her. "And they're gonna score next."

"Wanna bet?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Okay, if win . . ." She grabbed a pillow from behind her back. "Then I get to hit you with this five times."

"And if I win?"

"Then you just win. Nothing else happens."

He smiled, rolling his eyes. "Alright, you're on."

Their stupid, meaningless little bet made the next drive a bit more interesting, and it was a quick one, too. The Saints couldn't get a first down, so they punted, and the Chiefs ended up with a big return. They ran it back almost an entire field length to the end zone.

"Ha!" Clarke exclaimed, a mischievous look on her face as she picked up the pillow. Playfully, she whacked him with it five times, most just his side and his shoulder, but she did get in one really good hit on his head.

"Screw this," he said, grabbing a pillow from behind _his_ back. He started hitting her with it, too, and she squealed and tried to scurry further towards the arm of the couch, using her pillow as a shield now.

"Wait, wait, stop," she said suddenly. "We can't afford new pillows."

He got one more hit in, just for good measure, and then she did the same.

"How did this happen?" he said, putting the pillow back behind himself. "I went from having a threesome tonight to having a pillow fight."

"This is better," she said, scooting in towards the middle cushion.

 _Yeah,_ he thought as the corners of his mouth tugged upward. It kind of was.

...

When Clarke showed up at Grounders, Bellamy and Murphy were both there, having an interesting conversation. "No, I need to _last_ longer," Murphy was saying. "Tell me how you last."

Bellamy covered his face with both hands and groaned, "Oh, what the fuck?"

 _Have fun with that one,_ Clarke thought. She couldn't even imagine having that conversation with Murphy, but then again, she wasn't a guy.

When she walked in the studio room, she noticed her arch rival there, lazily walking around the pole, doing a few halfhearted twirls. She looked . . . sad.

"Hey, Ontari," Clarke greeted softly.

The other girl just glared at her.

Clarke set her purse down and took off her jacket, trying to think of a way to ease into a civil conversation with a girl who clearly didn't like her very much. "Hey, I'm kind of glad you're here, actually," she started in, slowly approaching her, "because I was really hoping we could clear the air."

Again, the only response she got was this infuriated glare.

"I don't have anything against you, and I don't want there to be this tension between us." Had she not put the pieces of Ontari's situation together yesterday, she probably wouldn't have even extended an olive branch. But it seemed like she'd been through a lot lately, and Clarke was more than willing to put the past behind them and move on from there. "I think you're amazing at what you do. That's why you're Number One."

"That's not what I am anymore," Ontari bemoaned. Her tone turned venomous again, when she seethed, "Thanks to you."

Clarke had to try _so hard_ to bite her tongue, to respond calmly and hope that the other girl would start to do the same. "I didn't take your spot in the Halloween show," she said.

"Well, you certainly didn't earn it."

Oh, but when she said things like that, it was just impossible to continue on. Clarke gave up. "Okay, I tried to be nice, but clearly you're not capable of that."

"You think you're _so_ great, don't you?" Ontari growled. "You think you've got this place all figured out. You think you know what you're doing, but you don't. You're a knock-off, Clarke, a pathetic, useless, less hot version of me."

They were nothing alike, though. They had different looks, different performance styles, different brands. Not to mention, _way_ different personalities. "I'm nothing like you," she argued. "So back the hell off and let me rehearse for the show you're _not_ part of."

"What if I don't, huh?" Ontari let go of the pole and took a few menacing steps towards Clarke, getting right up in her face. "What if I don't back off? What're you gonna do, huh? What's the spoiled, small-town princess gonna do to me?"

Clarke tried not react to the princess nickname, but it was hard not to when she'd heard so many people use it against her all her life. "Don't call me that."

"Oh, you're right. The word I was looking for was slut."

The irony of a girl who basically dabbled in prostitution saying that was not lost on Clarke. But it still pissed her off. "You're lucky you were pregnant," she said, feeling like she would have slapped the chick otherwise.

"What'd you say, you stupid bitch?" Both of Ontari's hands shot outward, shoving Clarke in the back as she tried to walk away.

Clarke tripped and fell forward a bit, barely able to catch her balance. _Oh, that does it,_ she thought, reaching her limit. This was straight-up bullying, and she wasn't about to put up with that crap. "Keep your hands off me!" she yelled, giving Ontari a taste of her own medicine when she shoved her back. That was all it took for the angry brunette to come at her, all fists and fingernails and fury.

It was a full on catfight as Clarke sought to defend herself. Ontari pulled her hair, so she pulled Ontari's. Ontari scratched her face, so Clarke did the same to her. They ended up on the floor, both of them kicking and pulling and screaming at each other, and it probably would have gone on a lot longer had Bellamy and Murphy not come and broken it up.

"Hey, hey, hey, Clarke! Stop!" Bellamy yelled at her, pulling her away from Ontari. "Stop!"

"Let go of me!" she yelled, struggling against him. Murphy was having a hard time holding Ontari back, because she was trying to elbow him in the ribs to get him to let go of her.

"Better control your bitch, Bell," she snarled. "She's gettin' feisty."

Clarke tried to lunge at her again, but she didn't get far with Bellamy holding her back.

"Good God, what's going on?" Anya groaned as she came out of her office. She took one look at the four of them and said, "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."

"She shoved me. I was just fighting back," Clarke quickly explained. There was nothing wrong with defending herself.

Anya looked _pissed_ , like she was about to throw them both out on their asses. "Ontari?" she said questioningly.

"Yeah, I did it," Ontari boasted. "And I'd do it all over again. Word of note, Bellamy: She likes it rough."

"Shut up!" Clarke yelled. Why the hell did she keep bringing him into this?

"Relax," he said, loosening his hold on her waist a bit.

"Ontari, you need to leave," Anya stated decisively.

"Fine by me."

"No. You need to _leave_ ," their boss emphasized. "Permanently."

Murphy finally let go of Ontari, immediately backing away, his mouth agape in shock, holding his hands up as if to defend herself if she started throwing something.

"You're _firing_ me?" she shrieked.

Anya just stared at her and nodded, not even batting an eye.

Ontari huffed in disbelief. "Fine. See if I care." She gathered up her things and of _course_ had to get her one last parting shot in before she made her exit. "Good luck with the Whore Next Door."

Clarke rolled her eyes. So, so funny. Any moment she was sure to laugh.

"I'm good," she told Bellamy once Ontari was gone. "I'm good." He let go of her, and she took a few deep breaths to try to calm herself. Her lip hurt, and she could taste a little bit of blood in her mouth. Maybe she'd have a couple bruises on her arms and legs where Ontari had been grabbing and kicking her, but nothing major.

"Murphy, why don't you go get her the first aid kit?" Anya suggested. She motioned to Clarke's lip and said, "You've got a little cut."

"Oh." She touched it, so unused to this. She'd just . . . gotten in a fight. A physical one. She used to make fun of those girls in the hallway who slammed each other into lockers and pulled each other's hair. Now, in a way, she was one of them.

"You . . ." Anya said, motioning to Bellamy, "come with me."

He lowered his head and sulked after her towards her office, casting a worried glance at Clarke as he went.

 _Oh, no,_ she thought, her stomach clenching. Was Anya really going to pay attention to those things Ontari had been saying? Surely she'd know she was just making them up. And if not, then Bellamy could explain it to her. But if for some reason he couldn't . . . then he might lose his job.

...

"I didn't see who started it," Bellamy said as he closed the door, hoping that was all Anya wanted to talk to him about.

"Doesn't matter," she said, taking a seat at her desk. "I'm sure you'd side with Clarke."

Oh, great, it was another one of _these_ talks. "Yeah, I would," he readily admitted. "Ontari's awful. If you ask me, it's about time she's gone."

Anya thought about it a moment, then nodded in agreement. "You're right. And we'll be fine. Harper's really been stepping up, and Clarke . . . she's got what it takes to do the same."

"Or you could fire her, too," Bellamy suggested, "for fighting." Hey, if Clarke lost her job here, no skin off his back. Hell, it'd be a relief.

"I'm still concerned about the two of you, if I'm being honest," Anya said, gazing at him quizzically.

"She's my neighbor," he reminded her.

"Seems like she's more than that."

Well, she was, but it was all still within the rules of this club. "She's my friend." He knew Anya had never seen him be friends with a girl before—nobody really had—but he needed her to know that was true. And that it wasn't going to change. "Look, I promised I'd look after her here, so that's what I'm gonna do," he said. He wasn't going to sit here and say that he'd talk to her less or spend less time with her. Given how entrenched in this business she was already becoming, that sounded like a recipe for a disaster. "I'll keep her safe," he promised, thinking that should come as a huge relief to her. "Unless you want her to end up like Ontari."

Anya breathed in sharply, shaking her head.

"Didn't think so."

...

Clarke reached into the tube to see what was left of her sour cream and onion Pringles. Not much, but enough that she could still snack on them.

"What're you eating, Clarke?" her mother asked her over the phone as she munched away.

"Chips."

"Chips? That's not very healthy."

She groaned, flopping down on the couch. "Relax, Mom, I'm in the best shape of my life. I'm working out, like, every day."

"Really? Why's that?"

 _Because I'm a stripper,_ the answer rang out in her mind. But there was no way on earth she was _ever_ telling either one of her parents that. "No reason." She flipped on the TV, switching to the Game Show Network. There was usually _something_ that could hold her interest there. The trivia shows were especially fun, reminded her of her old quiz bowl days.

"Well, now that I've finally got you on the phone again," her mother said, "I suppose I should let you know . . ." She drew it out dramatically, and Clarke had a feeling she knew where this was going. "The wedding's gonna be in May. Late May, probably," her mom informed her, sounding all cheerful about it. "I'd love for you to be my maid of honor."

Her _maid of honor_? Just thinking about it made Clarke's stomach churn. How was she supposed to get up there and stand next to that alter, acting like she was happy for her mom and Kane when, in reality, she was so drastically opposed to their union, she couldn't even see straight? "I'll have to think about it," she said, trying to be honest rather than cold. "Bye, Mom." She ended the call abruptly, tossing her phone aside on the couch. Great, now she had this on her mind. How was she supposed to just come home and relax when stuff like this back home prevented her from relaxing?

Unfortunately, the game currently on Game Show Network was The Newlywed Game, and that was the last thing she wanted to see right now. So she got up, grabbed her keys, and locked the door on her way out. She knew Bellamy was home, because she heard his TV when she was in the bathroom, so she knocked on the door.

It took him a few seconds to come answer it, but when he did, he looked somewhat surprised to see her. "Hey."

"Hey, can we hang out for a while? I'm alone and bored and stressed." Without really waiting for an answer, she slipped into his apartment, greeted by some kind of pleasant aroma coming from his stove and . . . a bearded black man on the couch, holding a video game controller in his hand. "Oh, hi," she said unsurely.

Whoever he was, he gave her a head nod. "What's up?"

"Oh, Clarke, this is Miller, my best friend. Miller, this is Clarke. She lives next door to me," Bellamy introduced.

"Hi," she said again. "If you guys are in the middle of something, I can just-"

"Actually, it's perfect timing," Miller said, standing up. He stretched and set his controller down on the arm of the couch. "I gotta go meet up with my boyfriend, so you can take my place at the PlayStation." He stepped into his shoes, then looked at Bellamy and said, "Come on, you know you wanna do it."

"I don't wanna do it," Bellamy said, shaking his head.

"Come on, man."

Sighing heavily, Bellamy gave in and . . . did a totally adorkable bro-handshake with his best friend, one that ended with them pretending to shoot each other. "Yeah, there it is," Miller said, laughing. "Hey, nice to meet you, Clarke."

"Yeah, you, too," she said, stepping aside so he could walk out the door. "He seems nice."

"He is."

"And he has a boyfriend, huh?" Perhaps she shouldn't have assumed, but she'd just figured that Bellamy, as a straight guy, would have another straight guy as his best friend. "Is he bi or gay?"

"He's gay. Here, you want some alfredo?" Bellamy offered, moseying towards his kitchen area.

"Ooh, yeah." So _that_ was what smelled so good. Bellamy had a huge pot full of it on his stove, and he'd mixed in some chunks of chicken, too. "So how'd you and Miller meet?" she asked as he scooped plenty of it out onto a plate for her.

"Uh, we were in a play together a couple years ago," he replied. "We had to kiss on stage."

"Oh, so it's not like a gay-for-pay thing?"

"No. How do you even know what that is?"

"So you've kissed a guy, though?" God, the imagery alone made her knees feel weak.

"It's acting, Clarke."

"But did you like it?" She wriggled her eyebrows teasingly.

"Well, I'm not about to run out there and do it again. Let's put it that way." He handed her her plate and headed back over to the couch.

"Huh. Well, that's interesting," she said as she followed him, wishing she could have seen that play. "Does he still act?"

"No, he goes to school now."

"Like Harper."

"Yeah, like Harper." They sat down, and he handed her a controller. "Here, you're gonna be the blue team."

She didn't know how she was going to balance a plate of chicken alfredo in one hand and a PlayStation controller in the other, but she'd try to manage. "What am I supposed to do?" she asked, surveying what was on the screen. A football game? Oh, she had no idea.

"Score," he answered simply.

"How?" What buttons was she supposed to press? What was that knob thing for?

"Just . . . figure it out," he said, unpausing the game.

"Okay." She really had no idea what was going on, but one of her players started to run, so she just pressed some random controls. And all of a sudden, he was in the end zone, celebrating a touchdown. "Woohoohoo!" she exclaimed, nearly spilling the contents on her plate.

"What the fuck?" he spat in disbelief. "How'd you do that?"

"I don't know." She shrugged cluelessly. "Let's play this. This is fun."

The pasta was good, so Clarke had to take breaks during playing to eat. That was usually when Bellamy's players advanced down the field. But somehow, she usually managed to stop them by using her random button-pressing strategy. And every time her team was on offense, they just kept scoring. She had no idea what was going on or what plays she was choosing, but she knew she was winning. "Did I really just beat you at video game football?" she taunted when they were done.

"No, because you took over for Miller."

"So I beat you, _and_ Miler beat you?" That was even worse.

He made a face. "No."

"That's pretty much what you're saying." She kind of loved that she was better at dancing and guitar-playing and now video games than Bellamy was. Because he was the kind of guy who was so good at so many different things. It was nice to have a leg up on him here.

"You know what? Let's play a different game," he suggested, getting down on the floor. He took out the football one and laid out some of the other options. "You can choose. Just pick whatever the hell you want."

"I just want another one I can win." She didn't care if it was car racing or zombies or hell, even soccer. Her competitive side had been sparked, and she wanted to keep beating him.

"Hold that thought," he said when someone knocked on the door.

 _Finn?_ she thought, not sure how she'd explain just hanging out here. It wasn't like she could claim Bellamy was giving her video game lessons.

When Bellamy opened the door, there came a loud "Surprise!" from whomever was on the other side.

"O," he said, and at first she thought he'd said _Oh_. But when she got a better look at the girl in the hallway, she recognized that long, dark hair and slender frame from the picture on his fridge. _O_ for Octavia. His sister.

"Hey, what're you doin' here?" he asked as he hugged her.

"Just takin' a road trip." She squeezed in the door, and a boy with shoulder-length curly brown hair came inside with her.

"Fall break," he added.

Bellamy looked at them skeptically. "I thought you had Thursday, Friday, and the weekend off for fall break."

"We do," Octavia confirmed.

"Well, it's Thursday. Now I know you didn't drive here that fast, so what gives? Are you skippin' school again, O?"

"Just one day. Mom called me in sick."

"Oh, of course she did." Bellamy shook his head, clearly perturbed, but then the expression on his face softened, and he asked, "How's she doin'?"

"She's doing good," Octavia told him. "No relapses since January, so . . . fingers crossed."

"Yeah."

 _Relapses?_ Clarke thought. So their mom had an addiction to something?

"Who's this?" Octavia asked, finally motioning to Clarke.

"Oh, this is Clarke, my neighbor," Bellamy dutifully introduced them. "Clarke, this is my sister, Octavia, and Ilian."

"My boyfriend," Octavia added proudly.

"Her boyfriend," Bellamy mumbled.

Clarke stood up and made her way over to them. "Hi, nice to meet you guys," she said. "Bellamy's told me about his sister a little bit."

"Oh, he has?" Octavia snorted. "Don't believe a word."

"So you guys just drove up here all by yourselves?" Bellamy asked them.

"Yeah. My parents were cool with it," Ilian replied.

"You parents are just cool in general," Octavia said. "Anyway, we kinda wanted to hang out in the big city for a few days, go back to Trikru and brag about how we _actually_ did something fun over break, unlike the rest of them. They're just going fishing." She made a face. "No thanks."

It sounded a lot like Arkadia, except that a lot of the people Clarke knew spent their breaks hunting.

"We don't really have enough money for a hotel," Ilian said leadingly, "so . . ."

Bellamy rubbed his forehead, looking immediately more stressed out than he had five minutes ago. "Uh, yeah, you can stay here," he said. "O, you take the bed, Ilian can take the couch. I'll . . . sleep on the floor or something."

"I have a sleeping bag," Clarke offered him. She also had a perfectly good couch, though she doubted he would be willing to leave his sister and her boyfriend alone in his place.

"I'll be fine," he said.

"Bell, since when do you have a PlayStation?" Octavia gasped, pushing past him to go sit on his couch. She picked up the controller Clarke had been using and exclaimed, "Oh my god, let's play something! I'm not even tired."

"Does he have _Grand Theft Auto?_ " Ilian asked, joining her on the couch.

Clarke smiled at the young couple. They were . . . adorable, and they kind of reminded her of herself and Finn with how they'd just gotten in the car and driven here. "I'll just . . . head back home," she said, sensing that Bellamy would want to spend some quality time with his sister now that she was here.

"Sorry we had to cut it short," he said.

"No, just . . . enjoy your time with Octavia."

"Oh, I'm sure I will." Eyes widening, he shook his head, looking like he fully anticipated being driven crazy the next few days. Like any siblings, they could probably annoy the heck out of each other from time to time. But it was clear they loved each other. From what she knew, Octavia was the most important person in Bellamy's life. She'd assumed he was close to his mom, too, but . . . now it didn't seem like it.

She'd just gotten back into her own living room when Finn walked in the door. "Hey, did you just get home?" he asked her.

She really hadn't, but she didn't exactly feel like telling him she'd been over at Bellamy's for the past hour. "Yeah," she white-lied. "Late night."

"Me, too." He shrugged off his coat, looking spent. "I don't know about you, but I kinda had a long day."

"What happened?" She wasn't used to seeing Finn come home from work in anything other than a good mood. He was loving his job, talked about it all the time.

"Some clients didn't like the photos I took, so now Cage is having another photographer shoot the ad, and . . . it just kinda sucks," he lamented. "I'm bummed, that's all."

She moved in close to him, putting her hands on his chest. "I'm sure your photos were great."

"I thought so." He shrugged. "Oh, well. What about you?"

"Oh, nothing much. Got in a catfight and found out my mom wants me to be in her wedding."

Much to her surprise, he didn't even ask about the catfight. It seemed like he had one thing on his mind when he hinted, "Sounds like we both need to de-stress then."

"Mmm-hmm." She _definitely_ needed that, but . . . she would have loved to just lie down on the couch and make out with him for a while, or maybe to give him a massage or _get_ one from him.

Finn never really did like to take things slow. When he was in the mood for sex, he was _in_ the mood. He kissed her, cupping her face, and backed her down the hallway, towards the bedroom. The mattress squeaked as they fell down on top of it together, and he started undressing her immediately.

"Finn . . ." She wanted to tell him to draw it out a bit, maybe try some foreplay to help build her up to the same level he was at. But he was already pulling her shorts off.

He did at least have the common sense to stop and put a condom on, but that took him all of two seconds. And then he was plunging into her, giving her no time to adjust to the feel of him before he started thrusting.

Knowing that there were two young, impressionable minds on the other side of that wall tonight, she made virtually no sounds at all as he fucked her. He pressed his face against the side of her neck and grunted and groaned a bit, but nothing those two kids would overhear, especially not if they were still absorbed in the PlayStation.

He came after a minute or two, his hips jerking into her a few more times, and then he just lay there, catching his breath, his body heavy atop hers.

"I feel better," he said.

Of course he did. Sex with Finn was . . . pretty much always all about Finn. Not that he never paid any attention to her or got her off or anything like that. Sometimes he did. But there were other times, like right now, where it was clear that his own pleasure was his only priority.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13_

Were these eggs going to end up being scrambled or fried? Clarke really wasn't sure, but they'd be edible, and that was really all that mattered. She'd just piled them onto her breakfast plate when a knock on the door sounded. "It's me," she heard Bellamy mumble gruffly.

Momentarily forgetting about breakfast, she opened the door and let him in. "You survived."

"Barely." He rubbed his face tiredly, shaking his head. "She wanted to stay up 'til 4:00 a.m. And then she woke up at 8:00, used up all the hot water in my shower. And now she wants me to find something fun for her to do today."

"Well, it's a big city. You have plenty of options."

"But I don't know what teenage girls like to do."

She shrugged. "Shop." That one seemed pretty universal.

"We don't have any money."

"I don't know then. She'll probably just be happy to spend some time with you."

"No, she's like a puppy," he compared. "She needs to be entertained constantly."

She didn't have any ideas for him, because she hadn't really explored the city much beyond the thrift store down the street and the club. "Well, you know more about this place than I do."

"Yeah, but I don't . . ." He closed his eyes and groaned when a loud, "Bellamy, where'd you go? I'm bored," rang out from the hallway.

He opened the door again and leaned out. "O, this is an apartment complex. You can't be shouting down the halls."

"Oh, sorry." She came to stand in the doorway, Ilian with her. "Hey, Clarke."

"Hey, Octavia," Clarke returned. "You look . . . chipper."

"I wanna go do something," she said, squirming impatiently. "The PlayStation got boring."

"Well, your brother tells me he's got a whole day of fun stuff planned for you," Clarke said, just to get a rise out of Bellamy. "So I'm sure you're in a for a treat."

He shot her an alarmed look.

"Really?" Octavia squealed, "Oh, I'm so excited. Where are we going first?"

"That's a good question," her brother muttered.

"Clarke, you should come with us. If you're not doing anything," Octavia suggested. "I'm sure my brother would have _much_ more fun if you're there."

Clarke glanced at Bellamy questioningly, not sure if he wanted her accompanying them on a brother/sister day. But Octavia had a boyfriend accompanying her, and really, Clarke couldn't deny wanting to see more of the city and actually go out and _do_ something. Something outside the normal routine. "Sure, I could tag along," she decided. "I haven't really gotten to see much since I've been here. Sounds _fun."_

"Let's go then!" Octavia was already sprinting down the hall. Ilian took off after her, and Bellamy trudged along behind the two of them, looking exhausted and worn out already. Clarke slipped her feet into some sandals, grabbed her purse, and locked the door behind her.

The first place Bellamy took them to was the place Clarke had most wanted to go see: the Statue of Liberty. It wasn't just an American icon. People flocked from places worldwide to get to see this thing. It was bigger than she thought, and very crowded.

"Ooh, wow, the Statue of Liberty," Octavia said, unenthused.

"It's one of the most famous statues in the world," Bellamy pointed out. "It's a symbol of our country."

"Great. Can we go now?" she whined.

Ilian whipped out his phone and said, "Here, let's get picture for my mom and dad first."

"Oh, and for my mom. Bellamy, come here." Octavia took out her phone, too, holding it up for a group selfie.

"Here, I can take it," Clarke offered. She took both of their phones from them and waited until they got posed in front of the statue. Octavia looked like a shrimp in between two buff guys. "One, two, three." Clarke snapped the first picture on Octavia's phone, then told them to hold their poses while she took one on Ilian's. "That's good," she said, looking at the pictures afterward.

"Let me see." Octavia took her phone back and laughed. "Bell looks like a dork."

Clarke moved her hair over her shoulders and took her own phone out, leaning back to try to get a decent selfie.

"Here," Bellamy said, leaning in with her. With his longer arms, he was able to hold it further back, and he snapped a picture of the two of them. "Sorry, I photo-bombed your selfie."

"No, I like it." It was a really good picture. Bellamy probably couldn't even take a bad picture if he tried, and even though Clarke's bad side was facing the camera, she thought she looked pretty good, too.

Octavia's energy could not be contained, so she immediately started asking Bellamy where they were going to next. They all got in his car, and he made the mistake of turning on the radio. A rap song was playing, but Octavia took her seatbelt off, leaned forward, and changed the station until she found a pop song that she liked. And then she proceeded to sing out loud, very off-key, at the top of her lungs.

" _So I put my hands up! They're playing my song! The butterflies fly away! I'm nodding my head like yeah. I'm moving my hips like yeah._ "

Clarke just tried to hide her face and laugh inconspicuously, not at Octavia, but at Bellamy. He had this look of agony on his face as traffic inched along. He looked like every annoyed dad on every road trip ever. And even though she felt sorry for him, it _was_ a catchy Miley Cyrus song, and hell, even Ilian was singing along.

" _I got my hands up! They're playing my song! I know I'm gonna be okay! Yeeeaaaaahaahaahaah! There's a party in the USA!_ "

After that lovely and seemingly unending symphony, they arrived in yet another part of town Clarke hadn't been able to explore. They had to park at a meter pretty far away and make a trek, but the trek was worth it when they ended up at the Empire State Building.

"Wow, the Empire State building," Octavia droned. "'cause it's not like I could've Googled this."

"Can we go up?" Clarke asked him.

"It costs money," he replied.

 _Oh._ That was a no then.

"Where else?" Octavia asked impatiently.

"Well, I could take you to Times Square."

" _More_ buildings?"

"I don't know, there's the Museum of Modern Art. That's free later this afternoon."

"Where's the _fun_ stuff, Bellamy?" she whined.

"What're you talking about? This is fun. Look, there's . . ." He motioned down the street, where a small crowd had formed on the corner. "There's a guy reading Shakespeare down the street. We could go watch that."

"Ugh, we have to read enough Shakespeare in school," Octavia complained.

"I fell asleep during _Macbeth_ ," Ilian admitted.

"I fell asleep during _Romeo and Juliet_ ," Octavia said. "And I was supposed to be reading for Juliet."

"Let's just go eat then," Bellamy decided, leading the way back to the car.

 _Poor guy,_ Clarke thought, following after him. He was trying so hard to give his little sister the New York experience, but she just wasn't feeling it.

The prospect of food seemed to be enough to shut off Octavia's complaints for at least a little while, and Bellamy smartly took her to that really good pizza place. Of course, Octavia decided she wanted to order practically everything on the menu. "So if I can't eat the entire pizza, can I get a box to take stuff home?" she asked the waiter.

"Of course," he replied.

"Alright, I'll have a large then. And I want breadsticks, too. And the side of pasta."

"Anything else?"

"No, that should do it."

"Thank God," Bellamy grumbled, looking through his wallet.

"Is this all on separate tickets, or-"

"No, he's paying." Octavia pointed to Bellamy. "Right?"

He sighed heavily. "Right."

When the waiter left and Octavia and Ilian got all interested in something someone from their class had tweeted that afternoon, Clarke nudged Bellamy and said, "You don't have to pay for me."

"No, it's fine," he said. "You can leave the tip, though."

She nodded, reluctantly accepting the generosity. But the truth was, now that she had a couple performances under her belt, she probably had more cash on hand than he did.

Bellamy did everything he could to entertain his sister that afternoon. He took them to the Museum of Modern Art, which Clarke actually thought was awesome, especially since she was somewhat of an artist herself. Even though the young couple wasn't very interested in anything on display, walking through that museum passed the time for a couple of hours.

"You guys ready to go home yet?" Bellamy asked almost pleadingly once it got dark out.

"No. It's still early," Octavia answered. "I feel like there's a lot we haven't seen."

Groaning, he got back in the car. "You're lucky I don't have to work tonight."

They drove for twenty more minutes and ended up at some park. Bryant Park, Bellamy said. There were lots of people sitting out on blankets on the grass, and there was a gigantic movie screen set up showing some old Looney Toons cartoons.

"What is this?" Clarke asked, feeling like she'd never seen anything like it before.

"Movies in the park." Bellamy shut his door and locked the car. "It's my last attempt at fun."

"Finally!" Octavia exclaimed, bounding forward with Ilian. "This looks awesome."

Clarke hung back with Bellamy while he pulled two blankets out of his trunk. She loved listening to the casual sounds of conversation that all those people were having, even though she didn't know who they were or what they were saying. She loved the whole atmosphere of this place. It felt so different and so alive. "This is kind of cool," she said.

"Don't know what movie it is, but . . . at least we can sit down." He slammed his trunk shut and walked fast to catch up to his precocious little sister.

They found a pretty good spot not too close or too far away from the screen, and Bellamy spread out the blankets for them. Ilian and Octavia lay down on one, his arm around her, and Bellamy sat down with Clarke on the other. At one point, when Octavia and Ilian started to kiss, he snapped, "Hey now, none of that," which got an exaggerated eye-roll out of Octavia.

"You're a good brother," Clarke told him.

"I try," he said modestly.

"Not every guy would spend all day with his little sister."

"Well, it was either this or an audition for a deodorant commercial, so . . ." He shrugged.

Even though he was downplaying it, he really _had_ done a lot for Octavia today. Even though she'd complained about being bored, Clarke suspected she'd actually had a really good time. She was just seventeen, so complaining was still in her DNA. "She's . . . a lot," Clarke remarked quietly. "But she adores you."

"Well, I'm adorable," he joked.

She laughed.

"Hmm, let's see, what do we got here?" he said, watching the screen as the cartoons came to an end and the film started to play. When the title came up, it was . . . really something: _Killer Klowns from Outer Space._ "A classic, obviously," he determined.

From the onset, Clarke could tell it was one of those 1980s campy horror flicks, probably a cult classic because of the wretched acting and ridiculous plot. Only a few scenes in, and already she was thanking their lucky stars that they hadn't had to pay for this, because it was cinema at its absolute worst.

"Hey, you guys."

She looked up when someone spoke to them, and there were Finn and Raven. Finn had a blanket under his arm, and Raven had a smile on her face.

"Hey," Clarke said. "What're you guys doing here?"

"Oh, we had to get out of the office for a while," Raven said.

"Work overload," Finn agreed, laying out their blanket.

"Here, Clarke, I can switch you if you wanna sit with him," Raven offered.

"Oh, thanks." Clarke got up and moved, and Raven took her spot next to Bellamy.

"Hi, I'm Raven," she introduced herself.

"Bellamy," he returned.

"Nice to meet you. I work with him," she said, pointing to Finn.

"I work with her." Bellamy motioned to Clarke, but then he had to reach over and give his sister's shoulder a good whack when she and Ilian started playing tonsil hockey again. "Hey, stop." He turned back to Raven and explained, "My little sister."

" _Oh._ Does she drive you crazy?" Raven asked.

"Yes."

"I understand. I have a little sister, too, and I love her, but, like, in small doses."

"I've been hangin' out with her all day," Bellamy told her.

"Oh, yikes."

"Yep."

Clarke tried to redirect her attention back to the movie, but it was hard to do that when Finn put his arm around her and asked, "Were you hanging out with them all day, too?"

"Yeah." She didn't really want to boast about getting to go see Lady Liberty and Empire State Building and all that stuff when Finn had been working, so she tried to downplay it. "They were sightseeing, so I just tagged along." She probably should have picked him up something today, some little Statue of Liberty figurine or something. There had been a vendor selling them, and she'd just walked right on past.

"So what're you guys working on that has your brains so fried?" she heard Bellamy ask Raven.

"A ton of promotion for this up-and-coming rap artist," she replied.

"Is he any good?"

"Yeah, actually. Kind of a cross between Kevin Gates and Schoolboy Q with just a _dash_ of Lil Uzi Vert mixed in."

"Huh."

Clarke hadn't the slightest idea what—or rather _whom_ —they were talking about. Lil Uzi Vert? There was some rapper out there who called himself Lil Uzi Vert?

The movie was predictable and predictably bad, but sort of one of those flicks that was so bad it was good. When it was over, Clarke found herself wishing they'd show another one, but the screen went black, and people started to pack up their blankets and snacks and leave.

"Well, that was a cinematic masterpiece," Bellamy declared sarcastically.

"It was _fun_ , though," Clarke said pointedly.

"Yeah, it was," he agreed. "Octavia, don't you think that was _fun_?"

"It was fun," she moaned tiredly. Neither she nor Ilian had moved. Her head was on his chest, and they both looked like they could fall asleep right there. "I'm tired."

Well, it'd taken long enough, but finally, the girl was as worn out as her brother was.

"Yeah, I'm kinda wiped, too," Raven said, pulling down her skirt. "No more work tonight."

Finn folded up his blanket and said, "Hey, I gotta drive Raven home, alright? Can you catch a ride back with Bellamy?"

"Sure," she said, giving him a quick kiss. "See you soon."

"Bye, Clarke," Raven said. "Bye, Bellamy. Nice to meet you."

"You, too." He yawned, picking up both blankets without folding them, and said, "Alright, let's go," as he yanked Octavia up.

When they got back to Mount Weather, Clarke hung out with Bellamy a little longer, just while she waited for Finn to get home. Octavia crashed in Bellamy's bed right away, not even bothering to kick off her shoes, and Ilian lay down on the couch and started snoring a few minutes after. Bellamy unexpectedly got hungry, though, so he stood in the dark kitchen, spreading some cream cheese over a bagel. One half for him, the other half for Clarke, he said. After instructing him to load hers up with extra cream cheese, she leaned against the counter and noted, "So you and Raven seemed to hit it off tonight."

"Yeah, she's cool," he said nonchalantly.

They'd spent a good deal of that film talking to each other while Clarke had cuddled up to Finn. It sure seemed like they were into each other. "I don't think she has a boyfriend."

"Subtle as a Mack truck," he said, setting his cream cheese covered knife down. "Are you tryin' to hook me up, Clarke?"

"No. I just think . . . she's attractive, you're attractive."

"You think I'm attractive, huh?" He grinned.

If that wasn't a given, she would have felt more embarrassed about letting it slip. "You guys could get together and just . . . _be_ attractive."

"Well, what if I'm not attracted to _her_?"

"I don't know why you wouldn't be." Even though being a bisexual woman wasn't the same as being a straight male, Clarke considered herself to have a pretty good gauge on feminine hotness. Raven was a ten out of ten, obviously.

"Well, maybe _you_ should hook up with her if you're so interested," he teased.

"I'm not. I just think you are. You were flirting with her," she pointed out.

He slid her half of the bagel over to her and said, "I flirt with everyone. It's my default setting."

"You don't flirt with me."

"Yes, I do," he claimed. "You just don't pick up on it."

For a second, her breath hitched, and she wasn't sure why. Was he flirting now, even? Did this qualify? Or were they just bantering? Because they did that from time to time.

"Can you two _stop_ flirting so I can get to sleep?" Octavia growled from over on the bed.

Oh. So apparently it was flirting then.

Bellamy shrugged and took a bite of his bagel, and Clarke looked away and did the same.

...

Wednesday nights at Grounders weren't exactly the busiest. Naturally, everything picked up on weekends, so Clarke was glad she wasn't scheduled for these weeknights. She sensed that some of the other girls were jealous of her getting so many Friday and Saturday night slots, but they just weren't as vocal about it as Ontari would have been.

Still, even when she wasn't working, she didn't mind going there to just hang out. Bellamy worked most nights, it seemed, and even if he wasn't there, she could talk to Murphy or Niylah. Anything was better than just waiting at home for Finn to return. He said the next few months were going to be crazy because their agency did so much holiday promotion. So she'd have to deal with him not being around much.

"Slow night," she said, holding out her empty glass.

"Yep," Bellamy agreed as he poured her some more club soda. "Just drags on."

Beside her, Harper nodded in agreement, though she probably wasn't even listening to a word they were saying. She had her textbook open on the bar and was in the zone.

"I can't believe you're studying," Bellamy said as he switched to tequila to refill her drink.

"Midterms," she grumbled.

 _I wonder if Monty and Jasper and Maya are studying for midterms then, too,_ Clarke pondered. She'd talked to each of them a few times, and she of course had their social media updates to keep her in the loop. But Maya's social media had been taken over by sorority happenings now that she was a pledge, Jasper mainly posted pictures and videos of parties, and Monty never really posted much of anything.

Pushing the thoughts of them and their college experiences out of her mind, Clarke cleared her throat and asked, "Harper, if there was a beautiful, young, successful woman interested in Bellamy, wouldn't you tell him to go for it?"

Harper finally looked up from her book. "Sure. Why not?"

Bellamy shook his head. "Clarke's trying to set me up with someone. But I don't date. I haven't dated since high school."

"How many girls did you date then?" Clarke asked him.

"Total or just at one time?"

She rolled her eyes, doubting he _really_ had juggled multiple girlfriends. Although . . . he had those threesomes, so anything was possible.

Before she could push the Raven idea further, two eager guys sidled up next to her and Harper, their tongues practically hanging out. "Hey, are you girls dancin' tonight?" one of them asked.

"No, sorry," Clarke answered apologetically.

"Damn. Let's go man. No strippers." Looking all disappointed, they hung their heads and sulked towards the exit.

"No strippers?" Clarke echoed. Since when? Every night this side of the club was open, someone was dancing.

"I thought Vivian had tonight," Harper said.

Clarke looked around, sensing a bit of unrest with all the men there. It wasn't like it was as packed as it was on a Friday or Saturday, but there were still people who had shown up to be entertained. And right now, they were all just sitting around talking and drinking with each other.

"Bad news," Anya said as she approached the bar. "Vivian's sick, so we have no entertainment. Keep the drinks flowing, Bellamy. That's all that's gonna keep these people in here tonight."

"Oh, no. I'm sorry, Anya. I'd step in, but I'm feeling kind of under the weather myself," Harper said.

"That's fine. I want you rested for the Halloween show anyway. We'll make do." Sighing heavily, Anya motioned for Bellamy to give _her_ a drink, and he didn't even have to ask what she wanted. She walked off with her glass in hand, looking . . . worried.

"You guys might wanna leave," Bellamy advised. "This crowd's gonna get pretty unhappy."

They were already unhappy, though. Clarke could overhear what some of them were saying, and they were talking about leaving. One of them stopped Anya as she walked past and demanded—not asked, but _demanded_ —to know why there was no entertainment tonight. She tried to explain, but he didn't want to hear it, so he just got up and left.

 _Poor Anya,_ she thought. This club was the woman's whole life. She worked tirelessly to run this place, and running a safe and reputable strip club couldn't be easy, especially for a woman. These customers she aimed to please were turning on her, and Clarke watched as more and more of them got up and walked out.

"Give me your shirt," she told Bellamy.

He looked at her confusedly. "What?"

"That plaid thing," she said. "Let me see it."

Unsurely, he unbuttoned the black and white long-sleeved plaid flannel he had on and took it off, wearing a white beater underneath.

"Can I borrow this?" she asked as he handed it to him.

"Uh . . . sure."

"Thanks." She shot off her stool and scurried into the back. She had an idea.

...

Bellamy felt a little weird bartending in just his white undershirt. Sure, he knew his arms looked good, but this was the kind of thing he wore around the house, not to work.

"Where'd Clarke go?" Harper asked.

"I don't know." He poured himself a drink, figuring he might need one to make it through the night. He raised his glass to his lips but stopped short of drinking anything when some slow, seductive music came over the speaker. The kind someone there would _dance_ to.

 _Oh, shit,_ he thought, his eyes darting towards the stage. _No, no, no._

Clarke came out from behind the curtain, striding in time with the music, shrouded in shadow until she stepped closer to the spotlight. One look at her, and he couldn't look away. She was wearing _his_ plaid shirt. It went to mid-thigh on her, and she had the top two buttons unbuttoned. She'd messed up her hair a bit, and in contrast to the girls who wore the highest of high heels on that stage . . . she was barefoot. So she looked like she'd just gotten out of bed.

But . . . she was wearing his shirt. His _shirt_.

Everyone left in the club got real quiet and started to watch as she swayed slowly from side to side, drawing all their attention. Anyone who'd been on their way out the door turned back around and decided to stay.

She held the pole with one hand and walked around it, not needing to do all the fancy spins and tricks to captivate everyone in the room. She dropped down and spun around a couple times, just a dip here and there, but for the most part, it was clear that she wasn't executing any choreography right now. She was making it up as she went.

And she was making up something sexy as hell.

She popped open another button her shirt—his shirt—as she leaned back against the pole and slid down to the floor. Her hips swiveled their way downward, and once she was seated, she threw her head back, squeezed her breasts flannel-covered breasts, and . . . well, Bellamy felt his jeans get tighter, that was for sure.

Reaching out, she slowly lay down on her side, then turned over onto her back and arched first her chest and then her hips into the air. She did that move a few times, and it was so overtly sexual, so _tantalizing_ , that everyone finally broke out of their trance and cheered for her. When she sat up, she smiled at them flirtatiously, pausing to bite her finger and look all adorable and innocent, and then she swung herself up into a spin and stood, sticking her ass out exaggeratedly and shaking her hips. Beneath his shirt, Bellamy caught a glimpse of some black panties, small ones by the looks of it.

He felt like an ass for watching. But _everyone_ was watching.

She did something unexpected then, something he'd never even seen Ontari do: She stepped down off the side of that stage and meandered past tables of spectators with a dazedly blissful smile on her face. She clutched the sleeves of his shirt as they dropped down past her wrists, and she even hopped up onto an empty chair that was in her way. She did a few seductive body rolling motions up there, then stepped right off and continued in the direction of the bar.

 _She's coming over here,_ Bellamy realized, taking a few steps back. Why the hell was she coming his way?

It was as if she had no idea that what she was doing was unprecedented for that club, leaving the stage and making the whole _room_ her stage. Because she hopped up onto that bar like it was nothing, tucked her knees up underneath herself, and posed innocently while she unbuttoned another button on that shirt. It hung open enough for everyone to see her black bra now. Including Bellamy.

When she stood up on that bar, he was really glad she didn't have heels on, because he was probably the only person in the room concerned that she would fall. She walked in a purposefully crooked line always moving to the music. She must have been thinking about what she could do next, but he couldn't see her mind working at all. She was just in the zone, and she had all of the other people in that room in that same zone with her.

Hips swirling, she dropped down into a squat again, giving Bellamy _quite_ the interesting view of her backside. He knew his eyes must have grown large as saucers, because . . . _damn_. And then when she turned around and repeated the move, eyes on him this time . . . he wasn't sure if he was _actually_ drooling or not, but he felt like he could be.

She smiled at him flirtatiously and held out her hand, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, so he just grabbed it and helped her hop down off the bar. Grazing her fingertips across the counter she walked the length of the bar and walked back out around the other side. Nobody dared touch her as she slowly strode back up to the stage, but they probably all wanted to. Hell . . . Bellamy wanted to.

It was sort of a sickening feeling, knowing that, deep down, he wasn't any different than the rest of these guys. He kept watching as she got down on all fours and crawled back up onto that stage. So many of the guys watching her were watching her with one hand on their crotch, and when Bellamy looked down . . . he was definitely having a reaction, too.

Still on hands and knees, she rolled her head to the side, flipping her hair all around, and then she moved her hips in similar circles, giving everyone there the fantasy image of what she looked like on all fours during sex.

More appreciative cheering. More crotch grabbing.

Legs still spread, she sat up on just her knees and faced all her spectators as she unbuttoned the rest of the buttons on that oversized shirt. She didn't take it all the way off, just let it hang open to reveal her bra and underwear underneath. One sleeve slid off her shoulder, and she just let it. She looked so _good_.

Gracefully getting back up to her feet, she took one more airy swing around the pole, then did one of those pirouette things he'd seen all the girls do at auditions. Once again, she leaned back against the pole and slid down to the floor, letting herself land in more of a heap this time. Her legs were at an awkward angle, her arms limp at her sides, and her head dropped to the side. Her chest heaved as the song faded, coming to an end, and everyone watching picked their jaws up off the floor and gave her the applause she deserved. Considering how few people were there and how much clothing Clarke still had on, the applause was _loud_. And why wouldn't it be? She'd just made her mark on that place for good. In his fucking shirt.

Harper turned to him once Clarke had walked off the stage, looking shell-shocked. "She's gonna be the new Number One," she predicted, sounding more impressed than she was envious.

His stomach knotted up. Because that was what he was afraid of.

It was a weird thing to see the club get _more_ packed after the stripper was done performing, but apparently word of what Clarke had done there tonight had spread. People hung around, waiting and hoping for another performance, and they must have called their friends or something. Niylah showed up, and he told her to clock in. If more people kept coming, he was going to need some help behind the bar.

When Clarke came back out to the bar, all eyes were on her. She may not have noticed it, but he did. It probably didn't help that she was wearing black leggings and a tight black tank top to match. When the girls came out in baggy sweatshirts or t-shirts and jeans, it sort of reminded the customers that the stripping was just a show. Luckily, everyone at Grounders knew the rules and knew not to touch her, and no one even really bothered her as she came up to the bar and sat down.

"Here you go," she said, handing him back his shirt. "Thanks for letting me borrow it."

"Sure." If he'd known that was what she'd be using it for, he wouldn't have. Or at least he would have hesitated. Because on the one hand, seeing Clarke in his clothing was a little too erotic, but hey, at least it'd kept her relatively covered up tonight.

"I figured the whole menswear thing would be a hit," she said.

"Yeah." He put it back on, leaving it unbuttoned, and tried to formulate words. His brain was still a little . . . distracted. "It's a good look."

"I think they liked it," she said. "I had no idea what I was doing, though. I just made all that up."

"Well, you . . . you did good." He hated complimenting her when she did something like this, but . . . she was a good dancer, and for someone who was only nineteen, she sure as hell knew how to command a room.

"Oh, and the irony of dancing to a song called 'Earned It' when Ontari said I _didn't_ earn anything is not lost on me."

She'd earned . . . something. He just wasn't sure it was this.

"Do you think Anya's mad at me?" she asked nervously.

"No." Anya would tell her not to get down off the stage again, because it was too dangerous to be so close to the customers. But other than that, she'd be thrilled. Clarke had saved the day—or rather the night—here. And come this weekend, there would be even more people showing up just to see the Girl Next Door.

"Well, well, well."

Horrified, he tore his eyes away from Clarke when he heard his sister's voice.

"This is where my brother works," she said, sitting down next to Clarke.

"O, what're you doing here?" he demanded. "How the hell did you even get in?"

She shrugged. "Just walked right in."

"What the . . ." He knew Octavia looked older than most seventeen year olds, but she didn't look twenty-one. "Where's Ilian?" He had a hard time imagining that Octavia had brought her boyfriend along with her, knowing what he might see here.

"He went to get some food," she said, "from that pizza place. I just walked here."

"You . . ." Oh, it just got worse and worse, didn't it? Now his seventeen year old sister was walking around New York City by herself. In a skirt that was way too short, and he was sure as hell gonna lecture her about that when they got home. "You shouldn't be here," he said.

"It's not like I can really get into any trouble with you here," she pointed out. "Just relax, Bellamy."

"No, I'm not gonna relax." The last thing he wanted was for Octavia to be anywhere near this place. Right now, it probably looked cool and glamorous to her. She was at that age where she no longer felt like a kid and wanted to be an adult. And this was a _very_ adult place, too much for her to handle.

"I can take her home," Clarke offered.

"I'll just wait for Ilian. He's gonna come pick me up."

Bellamy was just about to launch into a tirade about how Ilian never should have let her come over here by herself anyway, because yeah, the pizza place was just a few blocks down the street, but a lot of bad stuff could happen in a few blocks. But before he could really get going, the worst possible person who could have approached them did. _Roan_.

"Hi, Clarke," he said, resting his hand on the small of her back. "I heard I missed quite the performance tonight."

"Um . . . yeah," she said, looking a little nervous.

 _Don't touch her,_ Bellamy wanted to say. He watched Roan's hand like a hawk, making sure it didn't slide any lower.

Roan looked over at Octavia and said, "Well, what do we have here?"

"Hi," she said, way too outgoing for her own good. "I'm Octavia."

"She's my sister," Bellamy quickly informed him.

But Roan wasn't deterred. "You're very beautiful," he told her.

Octavia smiled, apparently not finding it creepy that a grown man was hitting on her. "Thanks."

"She's seventeen," Bellamy added, about to explode. If that guy didn't take a step back from his sister and go pay attention to someone else, he was going to leap right over that counter and throttle him.

"Starting young, huh?" Roan smirked lasciviously.

Octavia tilted her head the side curiously. "What?"

"She's not starting anything," Bellamy growled. "Now get the hell away from her, or I'll-"

"Um, Roan," Clarke jumped back in, wrapping her hands around his arm, "maybe you could tell me what I should wear for my next performance." She slid off the stool and started to walk away, bringing him with her. "I bet you have lots of ideas."

"That I do," he said, all thoughts of Octavia abandoned as his attention returned to Clarke.

Bellamy stood there helplessly, his heart pounding as he watched them venture over to the couch Roan always sat on. He shoed the people currently sitting there away, and when Clarke sat down with him, she automatically looked so tense, so uncomfortable, and he knew he had to go help her.

"Well, you're dumped," Octavia declared.

God, how the hell was he supposed to take care of both of them at once? Both of them needed to get out of there, because Roan was the worst kind of guy this place attracted, and unfortunately, they were both attracting him.

"Come on," he said, hustling around to the other side of the bar. He grabbed her arm, yanked her off that stool, and dragged her towards the exit.

"So is Clarke a stripper then?" she asked him.

He couldn't think about Clarke right now. His first priority had to be getting Octavia out of there. But the second he was gone, he was going to go get Clarke out of a bad situation, too. "Hey, this girl's not twenty-one," he told the doorman as they walked out. "Don't let her back in here."

"Jesus, Bell, you don't have to manhandle me," she yelped, flinging her arm from his grasp. "Look, there's Ilian." Her boyfriend pulled his truck to a stop right outside the club, and she went and got in.

"Go straight home," he told them, feeling like they needed a constant babysitter.

Ilian just waved at him, and Octavia rolled her eyes like the disgruntled teenager she often was.

What a hell of a night this night had turned out to be. It had started out slow, but now . . . Bellamy just couldn't catch a break. He raced back inside, trying to locate Clarke and Roan in the crowd. Chances were, they were still sitting on that couch, but there were so many people mulling about now, he couldn't even see them.

"Hey, you," a low, sultry voice purred. He recognized it as Echo, Roan's girlfriend, and groaned as she sidled up beside him.

"I'm not in the mood," he told her. This chick flirted with him no matter how many times he rejected her. It was like she didn't know how to take a hint.

"You look so good tonight," she said, smoothing her hands up his chest. "You know, I think this club should branch out and hire male strippers. If they did . . . I bet you'd be Number One."

He looked over her shoulder, spotting Roan and Clarke. Roan had his arm around her now, and . . . _hell, no._ That wasn't happening.

"Relax," Echo said, holding him back as he tried to move past her. "They're just talking."

"You mean like he used to just 'talk' to Ontari?" Bellamy shoved past her, pushing aside anyone who was in his way, and marched straight to the couch. "Come with me," he said, picking Clarke up by the crook of her arm. He hastily escorted her away from there, noting the scowl on Roan's face, and he brought her back to the changing room, where he technically wasn't allowed to be. But it was just the two of them, so he went ahead and let it all out.

"Why would you do that, Clarke?" he roared.

"Why? Because I was trying to distract him from Octavia," she explained. "And it worked."

"Yeah, but . . ." She didn't need to be putting herself in any more risky situations than she already was.

"But what?" she prompted.

"I told you not to talk to him!"

"I know, but he's very . . . imposing."

"So then _why_ would you talk to him?"

"It was harmless," she said. "He ended up talking about the Jets."

"The football team?"

"Yeah. It was . . . whatever."

"No, _not_ whatever, Clarke," he argued vehemently. "You give that guy an inch and he'll take a mile. If he thinks he's got an in with you, he'll use it to his advantage."

"Well, I'm not gonna let him use _me_ ," she claimed, like it was that easy.

"I swear to God," he said dramatically, "I swear to God, Clarke, you're gonna give me grey hairs."

"Melodramatic much?"

"No, if I had known I was gonna have to work so hard to look out for you in this city, I would've . . . I would've just fucking walked to work that day instead of letting you give me a ride. Swear to God."

"Oh, well, sorry I'm such a _burden_ ," she shot back. "You know, I didn't ask for your protection."

"No, but you need it." Finn sure as hell wasn't stepping up to make sure this city didn't permanently damage his girlfriend, and there was only so much looking out for her that Harper could do.

"You know what? Maybe we should just go our separate ways then," she proposed.

"Fine," he snorted, but even as he said that, he knew he wasn't letting that happen.

"Fine."

His jaw clenched as he shook his head, and he forced himself to calm the fuck down. "No," he said.

"No?"

"No, I'm not . . . I'm not gonna do that."

The look on her face softened a bit, and she fell quiet.

This was just how it was gonna be, he figured. He and Clarke were not going to be the type of friends who saw eye to eye on everything. They'd bicker; they'd argue. They'd get downright mad at each other sometimes, but in the end . . . he'd be there for her. Whenever she needed him.

"Do you feel better?" she asked him.

He'd only feel better when she was out of there and Roan couldn't steal her away anymore. So he muttered, "Let's get outta here," and took off his shirt. "Here, put this on," he said, draping it over her shoulders.

She looked up at him confusedly but did just that.

He clocked out early, figuring Niylah could finish up, and made the decision to take Clarke out the front entrance rather than the back. He _wanted_ Roan—and to a lesser extent, Echo—to see that she had his shirt on, to see that they were close. To emphasize that, he put his arm around her shoulders and walked with her, not even caring in that moment if Anya saw and got the wrong idea.

Roan and Echo definitely noticed. Neither one of them looked amused.

Clarke drove herself home that night, and he followed along behind her. When they got up to their floor and she stopped in front of her door, she started to take his shirt off and said, "Here, you can have this back."

"Keep it," he told her, walking backwards towards his door. "You look better in it than I do." He smirked, loving the slight shade of red that crept onto her cheeks, and made sure she got inside and shut the door before he did the same.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14_

Words could not express how much Clarke did _not_ want to go talk to Finn's cousin. But if she left it up to Finn, it wouldn't get done. So she drove to the agency offices on a day she knew he was off on a photoshoot, even though there were a million other things she would have rather been doing with her time. There were things about this job that literally were not adding up, and she wanted answers.

"Hey, Cage," she said, gently knocking on his office door. "Do you have a little time to talk?"

He was on his laptop, but he closed it and said, "I can make time. What brings you here?"

She sat down in the chair across his desk. "Well, I was just wondering if we could discuss some things."

"What things, specifically?"

"Finn's pay, specifically." She wasn't trying to be greedy or anything; she just wanted to make sure that she and Finn were going to make it financially. "See, he's been working for you for two months now, and we really haven't seen any money coming in."

"He gets paid at the end of every month," Cage explained.

"So then where was the September pay?" When she'd asked Finn about it, he'd sort of just shrugged and said he was sure Cage would get it to him.

"I withheld it September since I gave him some of the furniture. That way he pays me back."

"Oh." And here she'd thought the furniture from Cage was a generous donation. Now that she'd gotten to know the guy a little more, she should have known better. "Well, that's fair, I guess," she reluctantly admitted. It would have been nice of him to let Finn know that, though. "I'm just a little worried because the cost of living out here is _way_ higher than it was back in Kansas," she fretted.

"Well, his salary's also higher here than it would be in Kansas."

"But that's another thing. When we moved here . . . he told me he was gonna be salaried. But now we find out it's this paid-per-job thing, and . . . I mean, is there any way he could just have a set paycheck? That would really help us budget and manage our expenses."

Cage leaned forward, elbows on his desk, hands linked. "Clarke. Finn's getting plenty of work. He's my number one photographer."

Clarke thought of Ontari and how quickly that position as the top dog could go away. "But what if he doesn't stay number one?"

"You have nothing to worry about," Cage assured her. "Finn's my family; he's blood. Besides, you've got quite the cushy gig yourself. Do a little dance, make a little love, get money tonight, am I right?"

She made a face, not sure if he was unsuccessfully trying to be witty or purposefully trying to be insulting. "I only dance, Cage. I don't sleep with people."

His eyes dropped down to her chest, and he shrugged. "You'd probably make more money if you did."

How was it that, with a few words, he could make her feel more objectified than all those men in the club did? Sure, they were horny and probably had dozens of dirty thoughts running through their minds when she and the other girls danced for them, but at least there was some level of respect there. "You know what, this is the second time you've suggested I trade sex for cash," she said, not about to just wave it off and pretend it was nothing this time. "It's really degrading, and I don't feel like it's appropriate."

Apparently he didn't care, because her rolled his eyes and groaned, "Come on, Clarke. Just because you're willing to show your cunt doesn't mean you have to act like one."

Hearing him say that was so shocking, so appalling, that Clarke couldn't keep her mouth from dropping open. What the hell, what kind of guy even said that to a girl? It was _such_ a derogatory term, and even though he was definitely a jerk, she couldn't believe he'd stoop so low to call her that.

She regretted even going there now.

It would have been nice to leave Cage with some parting shot, but she didn't feel like she could say anything to him without putting Finn's job on the line. Sure, Cage said he was family, blood, and he _was_ , but that didn't mean he had his best interest at heart. If he was mad at Clarke, he could always take it out on Finn by giving him fewer jobs and, therefore, less money.

She and Finn got to spend the afternoon together, though, and there was no way she _wasn't_ going to tell him. It'd upset her, and she needed someone to vent to.

"I went to see your cousin today," she revealed as they stood in line at a food truck, waiting for corn dogs.

"Yeah? About what?"

Looking down at the ground, she mumbled, "Money."

"Clarke . . ." Finn sighed impatiently. "I got it covered. You shouldn't have done that."

"Well, I did, and . . . he had some choice words for me when I was there." Finn didn't ask her to expand on what those choice words were, so she just told him. "He suggested that I start sleeping with people for money, and then he called me a cunt."

Finn grimaced, shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "Cage is just . . . crude."

She snorted. "Yeah, you can say that again."

"And he doesn't get women. I mean, he _gets_ women, like to sleep with and stuff, but he doesn't _understand_ them."

"So is that supposed to be an excuse?" There were plenty of guys out there who didn't get women—hell, Finn himself didn't _get_ women all the time. But he'd never say the things that Cage had said.

"Just ignore him," Finn suggested.

"How?" Not only was he Finn's boss and cousin, but he was one of his closest friends in this town. She was going to have to deal with him, going to have to interact with him and pretend it didn't make her physically nauseous to have to be anywhere around him. Finn made it sound like it was so easy, but it was frustrating as hell feeling like she was letting him get away with being an absolute jackass.

They dropped the Cage topic once they got their corndogs, and as they were walking down the sidewalk, they came upon Grounders. For the first time, Finn saw the posters of her in the window, the very photos he'd taken. He stood there admiring them, grinning proudly, then put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a good squeeze. "My girl is so hot," he raved.

 _Your girl is so Photoshopped,_ she thought realistically. No way was her complexion _that_ blemish-free, and even though she'd been working out, her waist wasn't quite as tiny as that picture made it look. But if it drew people into the club to come watch her, then she supposed she didn't have a problem with it. More people meant more money, and with Cage controlling Finn's paycheck . . . well, they needed all the money she could make.

...

There was no way Octavia and Ilian were making it back to Louisiana in time for school on Monday—it was pretty much a full day's drive, and he didn't want them going straight through like that. So Bellamy didn't bother to wake either up them up early. He made them breakfast and let them get around and get ready at their own pace. When they were ready to go, he gave Ilian enough money to get a hotel room somewhere on the way back. As much as he hated the thought of his sister and her boyfriend holed up in some hotel, it was worse to think about them out on the road in the middle of the night.

Saying goodbye to Octavia was never easy. Even though he hadn't expected to spend the weekend with her, and even though she'd driven him crazy throughout the duration of her visit . . . it was nice to see her, to get to spend some time with her, and he wouldn't have minded spending more.

"Well, you get to relax now," she said as they stood outside the apartment complex while Ilian waited in his truck. "I'll be out of your hair." She messed up his already messy bedhead and said, "Your crazy hair."

"Chicks dig it."

"Like Clarke?" She grinned.

No, apparently Clarke liked guys with Aladdin hair and photography skills.

"Is she your girlfriend or what?"

He'd known that question was coming. Shockingly, it'd taken her this long to ask. "No. She's just a friend."

"Like a friend, or a _friend_?" Octavia asked. "Because I know what kind of friends you have, Bellamy. The kind with benefits."

"Just a friend," he repeated.

"Really?" That seemed to surprise her. "Well, I like her. She's pretty. Nice. Seems to like all that Statue of Liberty crap like you do."

"Symbol of our country, O," he reminded her. She could complain all she wanted, but he'd taken her on a pretty damn good sightseeing tour given that he'd had no time to plan it in advance.

She stared at him intently for a moment, then wrapped her arms around his larger frame and hugged him. He hugged her back, wishing he could make the moment last a little longer. On the rare occasions that his sister decided to be sweet, he had to treasure it.

"Look," she said, backing up a bit, "I know I can be a pain in the butt to deal with sometimes, but . . . I really do love you, Bellamy."

He smiled, already aware of that. But it was nice to hear.

"And I miss you," she added softly.

Yeah, he knew that, too. And it was something he felt guilty about every day. "I know," he said, wishing there was a way to be a bigger part of her life when he lived halfway across the country. "I miss you, too."

Octavia actually started to look a little teary-eyed in that moment— _very_ uncharacteristic for her, but she blinked the tears away, put on a smile, and stepped down off the sidewalk to go get in her boyfriend's truck. He motioned for her to put her seatbelt on, because she had a habit of not doing that, and she rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but ultimately, she dragged the belt across her lap and waved goodbye as Ilian drove away.

 _There she goes,_ he thought sadly, watching the truck until it rounded a corner up ahead and disappeared out of sight. Hopefully it wouldn't be another year until he saw her again.

...

Clarke recognized Bellamy's sculpted frame in the laundry room from the second she walked in. He sat on top of one of the dryers, his back towards her. None of the machines were going, so his load of laundry must have been done. But he just sat there, staring blankly at the wall, looking very lost in thought.

"You okay?" she asked him, approaching slowly with a full basket full of laundry balanced on her hip.

"Yeah," he said, casting a sideways glance at her. He looked down at his lap wordlessly for a few seconds, then added, "Octavia left."

She nodded knowingly, figuring he was going through sister withdrawals or something. For as different as they could be, it was obvious that their dynamic was a pretty special one.

"Funny, isn't it?" he said. "She drove me crazy while she was here, but now that she's gone . . . I just wish I had a few more days with her."

 _That's because you love her,_ she thought. Bellamy's devotion to his sister was blatantly apparent. "How often do you get to see her?" she asked.

"Not as often as I'd like. The last time I went home was . . . a couple years ago, for the holidays," he recalled. "We sort of had Thanksgiving and Christmas all rolled into one. I took her on a little vacation in Nashville a couple summers ago, too. And she came out and visited me in California once."

"So you only get to see her, like, once a year?"

"Pretty much. I mean, we text a lot, but . . . she's too busy doing her high school thing to talk on the phone much."

She smiled sympathetically. She didn't have siblings, but she could imagine how hard it would be to live so far away and still try to maintain that level of closeness. "So it's just her and your mom back home then?"

"Yeah. And my mom . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head. "She has lots of problems. O takes care of her, as much as she can."

She'd figured as much, especially with that talk about relapsing she'd overheard. She didn't know whether it was alcohol or drugs that plagued her, but whatever it was couldn't have been good. "Where's your guys' dad?" she inquired.

"We have different dads. Neither one of 'em's around."

"Oh." She supposed it wasn't all that uncommon these days for moms to be single moms, but . . . well, it sort of made her feel guilty, because her dad _was_ around, but she almost wished he wasn't.

"You know, sometimes I think about going back to Louisiana," he blurted suddenly, "just giving up on trying to make it here, going back home."

"Really?" She wouldn't have pictured that. Bellamy seemed so natural in this city, and having been here four years, he knew it like the back of his hand.

"Yeah," he said. "'cause the whole point of moving here was to earn some money so I'd be able to provide for them and take care of them. But I barely make enough for myself."

She wasn't sure how much he made, but she suspected she could make more in one night of dancing than he could make over the course of a week at work.

"Sometimes I think I might be able to do more for them back home," he said, "but then I think . . . what if it happens and I get my big break? Land some awesome part, finally make a name for myself in the industry . . . then I'd _really_ be able to take care of them. So I stay. And I keep trying."

Selfishly, she was glad he had. Without Bellamy here . . . well, she couldn't really imagine not having Bellamy here. Not only was he the first person she'd met in the city, but he was somehow the person she'd become closest to. Her friend, her coworker, her running partner . . . she kind of needed him around. "Well, I'd miss you if you weren't here," she quietly confessed.

"Yeah, I gotta stay," he said. "Gotta look after you, too."

It was nice of him to say that, but it definitely seemed like he put a _lot_ of pressure on himself. "You know, you don't have to look after _everyone_ ," she pointed out.

"But I want to." His eyes glazed over, and this thoughtful expression swept over his face. She tilted her head to the side, staring at him curiously, wondering if it was the fact that he'd grown up with two women that made him so protective of her. Maybe he saw something in her that reminded him of them. Maybe it was instinctual.

"Don't mind me, Clarke," he said. "I'm just . . . no fun today."

He was definitely in a bit of a depressed mood, but nothing that he couldn't pull himself out of. "Well, let's go do something," she suggested, feeling like, even their little sight-seeing expedition the other day, there was still a lot she had yet to see.

"Right now?" he asked.

"Sure. I'm not busy, you don't look like you're busy. Let's go not be busy together."

He thought about it for a moment, then grinned and slid down off the dryer. "Okay, sure." He opened up the washer to take his clothes out and said, "I know someplace we can go."

"Where?" she asked eagerly.

"Oh, Clarke." He gave her a look. "It's a wild time."

Her mind raced with possibilities. Some secret underground club? A sex shop? A rap battle arena? Was that even a thing? She doubted Bellamy would take her anywhere dangerous, so she was really excited for what he had in mind.

As it turned out, Bellamy's so-called 'wild time' place was Ace Bar. And it wasn't wild at all. It was a bar that had a whole bunch of old arcade games and even board games, plus a couple pool tables and ping pong tables. Clarke didn't even know places like this existed, let alone in New York City. It seemed so low-key and kind of nerdy. But from the second she walked in, she loved it.

She and Bellamy started out with a game of ping pong, which she wasn't horrible at, but he was better. He could lunge further than she could, and his arms could stretch out for a greater wingspan. She made it competitive, at least, but not competitive enough to win.

"You're pretty good," he said.

Bouncing the ball up and down on her paddle, she bragged, "Yeah, a little more practice and I'll beat you."

"Well, I don't know about that."

"Wanna bet?"

He picked up his paddle again, narrowing his eyes at her questioningly. "What's the bet?"

"We play again. If I win, you have to buy me a drink. If you win . . . I'll pay for the next round of songs in the jukebox." They had some nineties tunes going right now, all of which were awesome. But if Bellamy got to choose next, he'd probably pick some rap or hip hop crap.

"You're on," he said.

They played another game, deciding to just go up to fifteen points. It was an intense match, very back and forth in terms of the score, but she ended up edging ahead by two points towards the end, winning.

"Well, well, well. Look what happened there," she taunted.

Humbling accepting defeat, he put his paddle down and said, "I'm a man of my word." He walked over to the bar to get her her drink. It'd probably be something with minimal alcohol in it, but hey, better than nothing.

While she waited, she walked over to a big display case where lots of old-fashioned lunch boxes were on display. There was a Pac-Man one, a Charlies Angels one, and even one with Elvis Presley on it.

"These are really cool," she said as Bellamy reapproached.

"Yeah, they're pretty neat. Here you go." He handed her a glass of clear liquid with ice in it.

"Thanks. What is it?" She took a drink, disappointed to realize that he'd duped her. "Seriously? Water?"

"You didn't say what kind of drink." He shrugged.

She sighed frustratedly, feeling like she should have known he wouldn't just agree to go get her alcohol. He was very strict when it came to the legality stuff.

With her water in hand, she ventured over to the pinball machines with him, and they took turns doing horribly. They tried side-by-side car racing games after that, and he was a lot better at that than she was. She killed it on the Pac-Man game, though, and he seemed thoroughly impressed.

It took a while for the two skee-ball games to finally open up—it was an absolute _classic_ arcade game, after all, but when they did, Bellamy pulled her away from Pac-Man and brought her over there.

"You ready?" he asked, depositing a dollar worth of quarters in both of their machines.

"Oh, I'm ready." She couldn't even remember the last time she'd played this game, but it wasn't like he was playing it on a daily basis, either.

They started their games at the same time, both of them sending the heavy balls rolling down the lane. A lot of Clarke's landed in the two innermost circles, and towards the end, she even got one of them in the 100 point one on the top left. When Bellamy checked their scores and saw that his was significantly lower, he groaned, "What the hell?"

"Hmm. I guess I have better ball-handling technique than you do," she said, shrugging unsympathetically. It was so fun to beat boys at games. And between this arcade bar and the football game on the PlayStation, she'd beaten Bellamy more often than not.

After one more round of skee-ball, which she also won, they sat down at a table with a Scrabble board atop it and started an intense game. Clarke started off pretty well, managing to rid herself of the Z with the word zoo, but after that, it all went downhill. Bellamy was very strategic. He always made sure to play the higher scoring letters on spaces that got him double letter or triple letter scores. And when he lay the word _quit_ on a triple word score at the bottom of the board, she knew it was over.

"I don't think I'm gonna win this one," she admitted.

"Nope." He reached into the bag and grabbed took out three more letters.

"I should be better at this. My dad and I used to play Scrabble a lot."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I always won." It'd been years since they'd played, though, so maybe he'd just been _letting_ her win all that time. "I just have these crappy letters."

"Oh, sure, blame it on the letters."

"Well, they're bad." Seeing no other option, she lay down an _N_ in front of an _O_ to make the word _no._

Bellamy looked at her like he couldn't believe she'd just settled for two points after he'd just gotten thirty-nine.

"It's all I could do."

He recorded her points, shaking his head in amazement. "Wow. You must be really desperate."

"I am." She had six vowels left now, and three of them were the same letter.

"We'll have to play chess after this," he said.

"I don't know how to play chess." Checkers was as far as she'd ever gotten.

"I'll teach you." He leaned back, looking at his letters, rearranging a few of them in his holder, obviously planning something. Probably another thirty-something point word that would widen the gap in their scores even further. It didn't help that he actually had a really good vocabulary. He'd made the word _surmise_ earlier. Clarke wasn't even sure what that meant.

While he was planning out his word, her phone vibrated in her purse, so she took it out to check and see who she had a text from. It was Finn. _dinner?_ it asked, and it was followed by the name of a restaurant and an address.

Was it really that late already? 7:00, the time on her phone read. Had she and Bellamy really been there for nearly four hours?

"Finn?" he guessed.

"Yeah." Her thumbs hovered over the buttons, not sure what to text him back. On the one hand, yeah, she'd love to go out to eat with him. (Anything was better than the boxed frozen dinners they had at home.) But on the other hand, she didn't want to just ditch Bellamy.

"You wanna go somewhere else?" she asked him.

"Let me win first," he said, laying the word _jet_ on a double word score.

She smiled, feeling like his ego needed a win today. She texted Finn back, _be there soon_ , hoping he wouldn't mind if she brought company.

...

The restaurant Finn wanted to meet up at turned out to be a rooftop restaurant, Mexican food. The aromas were amazing, and a mariachi band was even playing. There really weren't any places like this back in Arkadia.

Finn wasn't alone when she showed up. Raven was there. Lately, Raven always seemed to be there. Not that anything was wrong with that. She and Finn had to put in a lot of long hours together, and . . . Raven was nice.

"Was this planned?" Bellamy asked as they approached the table, seeming to feel like he was being set up.

"No."

He gave her a look.

"Seriously," she insisted. It _did_ probably seem super suspect, but Finn hadn't mentioned one thing about Raven being there.

"Hey, babe," her boyfriend said, standing up and planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Hi, Clarke," Raven greeted. "Hey, Bellamy."

He smiled at her and started to take a seat before getting back up and switching with Finn.

"You ever eaten at this place before?" Raven asked him.

"Yeah, it's pretty good."

"It's one of my favorite places." She took a sip of her drink and asked Clarke, "So how's work?"

"Good," Clarke replied, scooting closer to Finn when he draped his arm over the back of her chair. "Halloween show coming up."

"Oh, yeah, that's a big deal. I went to it one year. It was actually pretty impressive," Raven said. "I give you guys credit. Dancing's hard enough as it is, but you add a pole into the mix and it's even harder. I'm sure it takes a lot of strength and practice."

It was so refreshing to hear somebody be complimentary of the _dancing_ aspect of what they did up there. "Yeah, it does."

Turning to Bellamy, Raven asked, "And what about you? Do you have to spend your Halloween there?"

"Yeah, I'll be working," he answered. "Bar won't tend itself."

"Do you guys have to dress up?"

"No. My friend Murphy probably will, though. Last year, he was Red Riding Hood."

Clarke laughed, trying to picture that.

"Nice," Raven said. "Hey, you could be one of those killer clowns from the movie we saw the other night."

"No thanks. I'm still trying to erase that thing from my memory." Bellamy grabbed a waiter walking by and asked, "Hey, can I get a beer?"

"Que?" the waiter asked.

"Cerveza."

The waiter nodded as he walked off to get it.

 _Speaking of beer_ , Clarke thought, surveying the one in front of Finn. Nobody ever bothered to card him, it seemed. It wasn't fair. "Can I have a sip?" she asked.

"Sure."

She met Bellamy's eyes as she drank, just to taunt him for not buying her that drink earlier at the arcade.

"So, Bellamy, are you originally from New York City?" Raven inquired. She angled her whole body towards him, a sure sign that she was . . . interested.

"No, I grew up in a small town." He added, "Gracias," when the waiter dropped off his beer.

"Bellamy's from Louisiana," Clarke expanded.

"Oh, so like down in the bayou then?"

"Not really that close to the bayou. Just a small town," he reiterated. "You ever been there?

"No," Raven answered. "But I hear the food's really good."

"It is. I miss it," he said, pausing to take a drink. "You can eat a lot of good shit in New York, but you can't really get any quality alligator meat."

Raven wrinkled her forehead in disgust. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm serious. I like alligator. You ever tried it?"

She hesitated awkwardly before revealing, "I'm a vegetarian."

"Oh." Bellamy just nodded and took another drink.

 _Strike one,_ Clarke thought, but that didn't mean all hope was lost just yet.

Unfortunately, it proceeded to get worse after that. Bellamy ordered meat lover's nachos of all possible things. The chips were so completely covered with beef and chicken and pork that Clarke could barely even see them. Raven just stared at his plate in horror, and Clarke even had to kick him under the table when he complained, "I wish there was more meat on these." He was being oblivious, and judging by the way Raven's body was no longer angled towards his, it was turning her off.

"So does Diana still work with you guys?" he asked her in the middle of their meal.

"Oh, no, she quit a couple weeks ago," Raven answered. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. She told me she was gonna get me modeling job, but . . . oh, well."

 _Slept with her for nothing,_ Clarke thought. Surely he regretted that now.

"Yeah, we don't really need any male models for anything right now," Raven said. "Sorry."

He shrugged, still eating. "Male modeling's a crapshoot anyway. You get paid, like, a fraction of what girls make."

"Well, female models _should_ make more than men, don't you think?" Raven countered. "I mean, they're more in demand. Usually they have to show more skin, and maintaining a size zero figure isn't easy."

Bellamy stopped eating, a meat-dripping chip still in his hand. "Neither is maintaining muscle. Which is what guys have to do. I'm not saying they should get paid _more_ , but it'd be nice if it was a little more evened out. I mean, Giselle's making forty-two million a year."

"Giselle's a supermodel," Raven pointed out. "How many male supermodels can you name?"

"Exactly."

Clarke listened to them helplessly, feeling like she was watching an absolute train wreck. Both of them seemed to have strong opinions about this, and the more they talked, the more contentious it started to sound.

"Okay, because it's not like males don't dominate the rest of the world," Raven said heatedly. "I mean, come on, men are graduating college at a lower rate than women, but they're still earning more money. They still make up the majority of the CEOs in this country, and they don't have a glass ceiling they're attempting to break through. Men dominate so many of the jobs out there, and we all know it."

"I know, but I'm not talking about those jobs. I'm talking about modeling," Bellamy argued.

She huffed. "The fashion industry is one of the _only_ industries where women have the advantage. So of course female models are going to get paid more, and of course they should. They're the ones who are gonna help sell the most product. It is what it is."

"Fine, it is what it is," Bellamy mumbled, and he went back to eating. Raven did the same, but there was so much tension lingering between the two of them now, and not the sexy kind. They both looked like they wanted to get the hell out of there, so they ate fast.

When it was time to go, Raven said, "Well, that was . . . interesting."

"Yeah, we should do it again sometime," Finn said.

Clarke gave him a look. He was kidding, right? Because this had been awful.

"Hmm. I think I'm gonna head home now," Raven said without agreeing to that. "I'll see you tomorrow, Finn. Bye, Clarke." As an afterthought, she tersely added, "Bellamy."

"Bye," Clarke said, wishing that had gone better. Bellamy had just blown his chance at getting to know and possibly dating a really hot girl. "Well, you screwed that up," she told him.

He just shrugged, and apparently it didn't bother him too much.


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15_

Bellamy wasn't sure what kept him awake the night before Halloween. Maybe it was just knowing that the next night was going to be utter insanity at the club. Last year's Halloween was one big blur to him. All he remembered was that, when he'd finally gotten home at 4:00 in the morning, he'd gone right to sleep.

As he was carrying a crate of glasses out of the back room, Murphy walked back there and bumped into him. "Hey, this guy out here says he's Clarke's boyfriend," he said.

Bellamy peeked out towards the bar, and lo and behold . . . yeah, there was Finn, one of two customers who'd gotten there early. "Yeah, that's him," he confirmed. Same old stupid hairstyle.

"I thought you were her boyfriend," Murphy teased.

"Shut up," Bellamy snapped, walking past him. He went behind the counter, set the crate down, and mumbled, "Finn."

Finn finished the rest of his drink and said, "Hey, Bellamy."

Giving Murphy a look, Bellamy said, "You know he's not twenty-one, right?"

"He's not?" Murphy cringed as he looked at the now empty glass in Finn's hand. "Oh . . ."

"I won't tell if you won't," Finn said quietly.

"What're you doin' here?" Bellamy asked him, unloading glasses underneath the counter. He'd never seen Finn set foot in this place, not once in the eight weeks Clarke had been here. And to be quite honest, it was just better that way.

"I came to watch Clarke's big routine. She says the Halloween one's been a lot of work," he replied.

"Yeah, they've been practicing it for a long time," Bellamy mumbled. He was actually kind of worried about how much skin Clarke would be showing tonight. She was one new girl mixed in with girls who had all been doing this for a while. Harper never did more than going topless, but some of the others did.

"I've never actually seen her dance like this before," Finn said, sounding excited. "I mean, I've seen her take her clothes off, obviously, but not up there. Is she as good as people say she is?"

Bellamy exchanged a look with Murphy, not sure how the hell he was supposed to respond to that. Finn wanted to know if his girlfriend was a good _stripper_? What the hell was wrong with this kid?

"Yeah," Murphy answered for the both of them. "I mean, I think she's . . . really good." He shrugged, seeming like he felt a little bit awkward here just like Bellamy did. "I wouldn't have pictured it when she first walked in, but . . ."

Finn smirked. "Yeah, that's Clarke for you. On the outside, she seems all sweet and demure, but underneath . . . she can be intense."

 _Yeah, I know that,_ Bellamy wanted to say, but he refrained.

"Like the first time we had sex . . ." Finn's eyes widened. "I mean, _I'd_ been with a few other girls already, so I knew what I was doing, but it was all new for her. And she cried, you know? I mean, most girls cry the first time."

Bellamy frowned. No, they didn't. If you knew it was a girl's first time, you went extra slow and were super gentle with her. Out of respect. Consideration. It didn't have to be painful to the point of crying.

"But then once she got a little more practice under her belt . . ." Finn trailed off, and the corners of his mouth rose upward as he grinned. "She's a freak, man. In a good way. Sometimes, if I'm in the mood to just get it in and get what I need, I'll just lay there and let her hop up on me, and she just goes to work."

Bellamy's frown intensified. Not because there was anything wrong with that, but because . . . it was wrong for Finn to be talking about it.

"Damn," Murphy said. "My girlfriend's usually too tired for that."

"Let's just put it this way." Finn motioned to the stage and boasted, "That pole up there isn't the only pole Clarke knows how to move around on." He chuckled and held his glass out to Murphy, signaling that he wanted another drink.

Bellamy just stood there, his hands clenching into fists as Murphy hesitantly poured Finn another glass. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell Finn to shut the hell up, because what kind of guy sat there and said stuff like that about his girlfriend? With one bartender he barely knew and one he'd just met a couple seconds ago, no less. You weren't supposed to do that; that was wrong. Maybe he thought he was complimenting Clarke, but Bellamy doubted she'd be happy to know that her boyfriend was openly discussing what she was like in the bedroom or that he'd even brought up her first time. That was probably something she wanted to keep private, just between the two of them. And here he was publicizing it, in a pretty vulgar way.

He _really_ wasn't loving the fact that Finn was going to be there tonight. Really wasn't loving it.

...

Inconspicuously peeking out of the curtain, Clarke felt her nerves kick in. "So many people out there," she said, amazed. Everyone had told her that this place would be packed for Halloween, but she hadn't pictured this. They were hanging out the door.

"Yep. It's gonna be a hell of a night," Harper said as she bent over to the side, reaching for her ankle and stretching out.

"Oh, just like our song title. I see what you did there." Clarke spotted Roan in his usual place, Echo right beside him, and he was accompanied by some men she hadn't seen there before. His crew or whatever. That was a little intimidating. But nowhere near as intimidating as it was to see a familiar head of black hair at the bar. "Oh my god, that's my boyfriend," she gasped.

"Where?" Harper got up and peeked out the curtain with Clarke. "Wait, you and Bellamy are actually dating now?"

Clarke rolled her eyes, because yes, Bellamy was _behind_ the counter, but they'd both signed contracts to work here, so of course they weren't dating. "No, the guy with the long dark hair. That's Finn."

"Oh, the famous Finn." Harper waited until she caught a glimpse of his face, then determined, "Cute."

"I didn't know he was gonna be here." She clutched at her stomach when it started to churn. "Now I'm even more nervous."

Harper resumed her stretching, asking, "Why? If there's anyone you should be able to dance for, it's him."

"Yeah, but the last time he saw me get up and front of people and dance, I was wearing a cheerleading skirt, not a thong. And I was shaking pom poms instead of . . . shaking my tits." Clarke looked down at the massive amount of cleavage she was already revealing and wondered if something might pop out prematurely while she was up on stage. She and the other girls were all dressed as dark angels, which was a costume that simply consisted of a bedazzled black bra, high-waisted black spandex, and two black wings attached to their backs. There wasn't much to the costume to begin with, and there would be even less to it once the first routine was over.

"I'm sure he'll enjoy this," Harper said, always reassuring.

She just hoped he wasn't . . . mortified. So far, this was going to be her most risqué routine yet. And there were _so many_ people there watching.

When she peeked back out, mostly to see if Finn was talking to that girl sitting beside him or just ignoring her, Clarke got distracted. Because pushing her way through the crowd was a familiar looking brunette girl wearing a cheetah dress that may have very well been a shirt.

"Wait, Harper, look," Clarke said, motioning her friend back to the curtain.

Harper came back and put her head next to Clarke's, peering out.

Clarke watched as that girl, accompanied by two other girls—one blonde and one redhead—got onto the laps of Roan and the other men with the best seating in the house. They started grinding and gyrating and giving full-on lap dances. "Is that . . ."

"Ontari," Harper filled in.

Clarke continued to watch, as did everyone else in the room, as the three girls put on quite the show. Had there been no clothing in the way, they would have pretty much been having sex with those guys, and not one of them seemed bothered by that fact. "What's she doing here?" Clarke asked.

Harper shrugged cluelessly.

It didn't take Anya long to see what was going on and get the bouncers over there to put a stop to it. She motioned Bellamy out from behind the bar, too, and he picked up the redhead and practically carried her towards the door.

"Tired of this club saying you can look but can't touch?" Ontari hollered as they dragged her out. "Wanna be a _real_ Grounder pounder? Then come to Polis. The lap dances are just the beginning." Licking her lips as she was pushed out the door, she and the other girls left, but they left an ominous buzz in the air after they were gone. A few people got up and left, followed them out, and the crowd shifted around a bit as some people found new seats.

"What's Polis?" Clarke asked.

"Bottom of the barrel strip club in one of the seediest parts of the city," Harper explained. "Girls who don't make it here or get fired usually end up there. Where they basically whore themselves out."

Clarke felt her chest tighten at the mere thought of that. She couldn't imagine being that desperate, that _screwed up,_ that she'd offer herself up in _that_ way. And Ontari . . . she'd never been the classiest dancer, but she'd been so good. She'd had so many fans here, and now . . . now it was just gone. Because most of the people in the club didn't seem to be leaving, despite her effort to entice them. But they would if this show fell flat tonight. Clarke knew that.

"So we've gotta make this really good then," she said, trying to squash her nerves once and for all.

"We do," Harper said. "We will. Hey, ladies, huddle up." Like a team captain, she got them all in a circle and said a few pump-up words, reminded everyone that they had nothing to worry about. These people were here to see _them_ , not Ontari. It was _their_ poster up in the window, not hers. She wasn't Number One anymore. They could do this without her.

When the lights dimmed and the eerie first beats of the music began to play, everyone in the crowd fell silent. Save for the lights coming from a few recording cell phones, Clarke couldn't see much. A hazy mist from a fog machine rolled across the stage, creating the dark ambiance they were going for. But that was about the extent of the Halloween element of this performance. The "Hell of a Night" song they were dancing to was just a regular rap song, and their costumes weren't going to last long.

With even strides, in a V-shaped formation of seven, Clarke and the rest of the girls strode seductively out onto the stage. Harper was the point person, leading them, but Clarke was right behind her to her left. Being one of the front three seemed like a big deal.

There were more poles out there tonight, some that could easily be put up and taken down, and the back four girls stopped at theirs first, doing a body roll against it. Clarke continued towards the front with Harper and Vivian, and when they reached their poles, they exaggeratedly pushed their hips out to the side. The lights started to brighten, and Clarke could see the faces of the men in the crowd. So eager, so excited. And this was just the opening number.

The V split kick Harper had taught her came in handy right away, because it was one of their first eye-catching tricks. Harper did hers alone in the front, and Clarke and Vivian followed a count after. It rippled back to the other girls, and then they all got back in sync as they did a few outside steps around the pole. Then a fan kick. Clarke didn't even have to think about it. The whole routine was in her muscle memory at this point because she'd practiced it so much.

Since there was no way to spin with those wings on, they unclipped them and slid them back towards the curtain, like angels shedding their wings. Then they climbed up onto the poles and executed the move Clarke had most been dreading because hers was still hit and miss: the beautiful but difficult corkscrew spin. She felt her whole body coiling around the pole as she spun downward, and it felt good. It felt graceful, felt sultry. She landed softly on her feet, trying to disguise the fact that she'd stumbled slightly in these heels. Then she turned around, pressing her back against the pole, and slid down to the floor, much like she had in her freestyle routine the other night. She and the girls faced different directions and kicked their legs in the air.

The routine was . . . full of innuendo. When it was time to partner up and imitate a tribbing motion, Clarke just went for it. She'd never actually gotten to do that with a girl, but being bisexual, rolling her hips against another girl's definitely didn't suck. Her partner stood up first, reaching out a hand to pull her to her feet, and she had to roll up all slowly and seductively. _Everything_ had to be seductive.

They rotated poles after that, which meant Clarke took the front and center one. Money rained down in front of her, but she paid it no attention as she grabbed hold of the pole with both hands and swung herself around, both legs bent behind her in a carousel spin. She was supposed to hike both her knees up into a chair spin after that, but she needed a bit more momentum, so she stepped down, swung herself up again, and hit the new pose, watching Harper out of the corner of her eye to make sure she had the exact same timing as her. They all hooked one leg around their poles after that, using a back hook to gracefully settle on the floor.

Of course, they couldn't rest for long. They had to get right back up and form a horizontal line. They moved as one, hips going to the right, then the left while their thumbs hooked into the sides of their oh-so-small spandex. Then they turned around, bending over to give the crowd a show as they pushed the tight shorts down over their backsides. The crowd cheered loudly as they stepped out of them, left wearing only thongs now, and they proceeded to cheer even more loudly when Clarke and Harper leaned in towards the center and planted a quick kiss on each other.

Guys were so easy to please sometimes.

Back at their original poles, they climbed upward again, then settled into a crossed ankle sit spin. Clarke had never practiced it without holding on with both hands, but adrenaline kicked in, and she held on with only her right hand as she spun around. She kept her legs locked tightly at their ankles and smiled blissfully, knowing by now that that was the expression these men liked to see on her.

Stepping down off the pole meant that it was time for what they all knew would be the highlight of the routine. They did a pivot turn to the back, each one of them unhooking the front clasp of their bejeweled bras, and when they turned back around, they opened them up and let their breasts fell free. Shimmying exaggeratedly, garnering plenty of hollers and applause, Clarke tossed the garment aside, tossing her nerves along with it. Rolling her head to the side, she cupped her breasts and squeezed, and she felt more money fly up onto the stage and hit her feet.

As the routine drew to a conclusion, they all crowded around the front and center pole. While five of the girls crawled around at the bottom of it on all fours, Clarke stayed standing with Harper, rolling her body against the pole and, by extension, against Harper's. They thrust their hips forward, mimicking sex, whipped their hair all about, and ended back to back while the other girls posed down below them. Clarke's chest heaved as she panted for air.

In her time at Grounders, she'd never heard a crowd cheer quite that loudly before. Which made sense. There had never been a crowd quite this big. Hopefully the people who had left for Ontari's club would realize what a mistake they made.

Money rained down on and below the stage like confetti on New Year's. There was so much of it, Clarke could barely believe her eyes. Sure, they'd have to split this, but she and Harper both had solo performances to do later, too, and then Vivian was joining them for a small group one before they performed as a big group once again to close out the night.

She looked over at the bar and met Finn's eyes as she stood there, holding her end pose with the rest of the girls. Finn was cheering louder than anyone else, on his feet, a huge smile on his face. Behind him, Bellamy stood with his arms over his chest, not smiling. Clarke wasn't sure why, but she suspected the toplessness of tonight's performance had something to do with it. All she knew for certain was that she wasn't about to let her own smile fall, not when twenty dollar bills kept finding their way to that stage.

...

 _Now I've seen Clarke's tits,_ was all Bellamy could think after the opening routine that night. He wasn't about to say it out loud, especially not with Finn still planted on a stool at the bar. But . . . yeah, he'd seen Clarke's tits. Now they all had. Him, Murphy . . . Roan.

 _Crap._

Clarke was a busy girl that night. She'd barely gotten done with the opening number when she came back up on stage for a solo routine. She was dressed in a Playmate bunny costume this time, unsurprisingly, and Finn was all about it. "I'm gonna have to get her to wear that at home!" he exclaimed.

Clarke and Harper were definitely the ones getting promoted the most tonight. Harper's individual routine was a crowd pleaser, too, and when she and Clarke and Vivian teamed up to all dance together, that looked good, too. But of course it all looked _good,_ because _they_ all looked good. And that . . . didn't seem to bother Finn at all. It didn't seem to bother him that he was in a room surrounded by guys who would go home tonight and jack off with a vision of Clarke in their minds. It didn't seem to bother him that his girlfriend was quickly becoming a fantasy for so many men. More than anything else, he seemed proud of her, which Bellamy found to be . . . unsettling. Clarke wasn't gonna stop, not when her damn boyfriend of all people was cheering her on.

Once it was all over later that night and the club was clearing out, Finn dragged Clarke out of there so quickly that Bellamy didn't even get to say anything to her. Finn probably wanted to go home and bang. He'd been bragging to the other guys at the bar that he was going to take her home tonight and 'put it to her good.' Nobody seemed to believe that he was her boyfriend, despite how much he insisted. Bellamy just smirked at one point when one of the regulars said, "No way a girl that hot would waste time with a kid like you."

Harper was the last girl to leave, and she came to the counter and sat down before she walked out. "Well, what did you think?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Dancing was good."

"Yeah, we pulled in a lot of cash." She looked in her wallet and said, "I'm pretty sure I've almost got enough in here to pay for next semester's tuition."

"Damn." A night like tonight was definitely lucrative then. For the girls, at least. It didn't matter how many drinks he'd served tonight. He was still going to clock out around the same time and get paid roughly the same amount. People sucked at tipping bartenders anymore.

"Clarke's a good kisser, by the way," Harper informed him. "In case you were wondering."

"Why—why would I be wondering?" he stuttered. Sure, seeing two hot girls kiss was . . . well, hot. But that was all there was to it.

"Never mind," Harper groaned, sliding off the stool. "See you next week, Bellamy."

"Bye. Get home safe," he called. He always worried about these girls walking out to their cars with so much cash in their purses. They were such easy targets.

So that was one good thing about Clarke heading home with Finn, he supposed. He could rest assured that she'd actually _gotten_ home safe, because Finn hadn't been too drunk to drive. So yeah, there was a silver lining to being left alone here while the girl he was trying so hard to protect was at home having someone 'put it to her good.' He was just in no hurry to get home and hear it through the walls.

...

Clarke's lungs burned as she slowed to a stop at the street corner. "Time?" she asked Bellamy.

Not even halfway as out of breath as she was, he checked his phone. "Seven and a half minutes."

Considering she'd clocked in at eight minutes on that obligatory and awful mile-run day of PE in middle school, she was pleased with this new time. "Gettin' faster," she said.

"Yeah, that's pretty good." He pocketed his phone, apparently not even tired when he asked, "You wanna run another?"

She felt like she probably could, but not right this minute. "Let me catch my breath first," she panted. "I'm still exhausted from last night."

"From the dancing?" he said as he picked up a piece of trash and carried it over to the bin in front of someone's yard. "Or . . ." He trailed off.

"Or what?" she prompted.

"Well, Finn said . . ." Again, he let his sentence fade, but this time he tacked on a mumbled, "Never mind," at the end of it.

"What, was he, like, talking about sex?" she deduced.

"Yeah."

"Sex with me?"

Bellamy shrugged.

Well, that was nothing new. Finn used to brag about their sex life to all his football friends. "Figures," she said. "Do guys ever talk about anything else?"

"Yeah. We don't _think_ about anything else, but we talk about plenty of stuff."

"So does that mean you'rethinking about sex right now?"

"No," he answered swiftly. "Why . . . you're sweaty and gross. Why would I be thinking about sex right now?"

"Oh, gee, thanks." She rolled her eyes, not really offended, though, because she knew it was true. She was drenched and disgusting, but Bellamy saw her like this a lot.

They walked across the street, a pace that felt much better on Clarke's tired limbs, and Bellamy surprised her when he asked, "So why does Finn call you Princess?"

Just hearing the nickname made her tense up. "How do you know about that?"

"Well, last night, after your first dance . . . he was cheering for you, and he said something like, 'Alright, Princess,' or something like that," Bellamy explained. "I was just curious."

Well, now that he'd brought it up, she heard the voices of everyone in high school saying that, even the voices of some very thoughtless, unprofessional teachers who hadn't seemed to get the hint that she wasn't okay with them calling her that. "It's been my nickname for a while," she said. "He didn't give it to me."

"Then who did?"

She slowed her pace to the point of barely walking at all, and he did the same. "I guess my dad, technically," she answered. "But growing up, it just became this thing people would use against me. Like if they ever wanted to upset me or get under my skin . . . they'd call me Princess."

He snorted. "I've heard girls called worse."

"Yeah, but people called me that because they thought I was spoiled and privileged and had everything. Which, okay, to some extent, that was true. We had money and a nice house. I was the only child, so I pretty much could always afford to go buy whatever I wanted. But I didn't have _everything_ , and even after . . ." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Even after things changed, people still called me that. And I hated it."

Bellamy narrowed his eyes confusedly. "So then why does Finn still call you that? Doesn't he know it bothers you?"

"Well, with him it's like a term of endearment," she clarified. "He says it when he's feeling . . . flirty or something. He doesn't use it to make me feel bad. He uses it to make me feel good."

"And does it?" he pressed. "Or do you want him to stop?"

She shrugged. "It's fine. It's just . . . I wish it was never my nickname to begin with."

"Hmm." Bellamy frowned, looking at her closely for a moment. "I think you should just own it," he suggested. "The people you went to high school with, the people you grew up with . . . that's what they're always gonna think of you as, so don't _let_ them use it against you."

"Easier said than done," she muttered.

"I never said it was easy. But you know what, some of the real princesses in history were badass."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, I used to be a history nerd. Trust me on this."

She laughed lightly, suddenly picturing him curled up in bed reading encyclopedias or something.

"Princess Zhao, the Spartan princesses, the She-Wolf of France . . . I mean, these were people who raised armies, fought in wars, killed the guys who cheated on them," he went on. "Now I'm not saying you should go out and do any of those things, but . . . my point is, not every princess is a Disney cartoon. Some of them are really brave."

 _Brave princess,_ she thought, wondering if she could fit into that category. Maybe. Leaving home in the middle of the night and coming here . . . that had kind of been a brave thing to do.

"Oh!" she yelped when someone ran right by, colliding into her. She tripped and fell off the sidewalk, but Bellamy reached out and caught her.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah." She rubbed her shoulder, peering around him to get a look at what was going on. And it was . . . really something. The guy who was running had two cops charging at him from the opposite direction. And seconds later, two more cops came running right past Clarke and Bellamy. Before he could try to dart across the street, they gang-tackled him to the ground and cuffed his wrists together behind his back.

"Can't say I've ever seen that before," Clarke said, trying not to stare. But it was impossible. "Drug bust?" she asked Bellamy.

"Probably," he said, putting one hand on the small of her back. "Let's go." He led her away from the scene, and they headed across the street when there was a break in traffic.

They ended up at the pizza place, which was fine by Clarke. In addition to feeling exhausted, she was also starving. She hadn't eaten since lunchtime yesterday on account of having been way too nervous to eat anything before the performance last night. She and Bellamy decided to split the cost of a large pizza, though, all hamburger this time. And it was _so_ good.

"So have you ever done drugs?" she asked as she finished off what would likely be her last piece.

"No," he replied. "Quitting cigarettes is hard enough."

She smiled, glad that he seemed to be sticking with that. "I got high once," she confessed. "At a party. Didn't like it."

"Yeah, I would never . . ." He shook his head. "Not into it."

"Do you ever worry about Octavia getting into that stuff?"

To her surprise, he shook his head. "No. I worry about her having sex with Ilian, 'cause I don't want her to end up pregnant. But she won't ever do drugs."

He sounded so sure of that, which was good, but . . . she couldn't help but think he and Octavia both had a reason to be so against even trying it once. "Because of your mom?" she guessed.

He froze momentarily as he reached for another slice, then slowly withdrew his hand.

"Sorry," she said softly, "I don't mean to pry, but when Octavia was here, you guys mentioned relapses and . . ." She'd wanted to ask him about it then and in all the days since, but it just had never seemed like the right time. And it probably wasn't the right time now, either, but sometimes she just couldn't not say anything. "I don't know, I just assumed . . ."

"Yeah, she has a drug problem," he confirmed. "It's gotten . . . pretty bad."

She could only imagine. Her dad had gotten hooked on some antidepressants a couple years ago, and just going through the withdrawals of that had been super hard on him. If it was something like cocaine or heroin or meth . . . it had to be even worse. "How'd that start?" she asked, curious to see if she could get some more information out of him now that he'd at least begun talking.

"It's, uh . . ." He stared ahead with a blank look in his eyes, shaking his head dazedly.

"You don't have to tell me," she whispered. If he wanted to keep it to himself, she fully understood. There were some things that were just better off buried.

"No, I will," he said. "Just to prove to you that this isn't like a small town. You can tell somebody something without everyone else finding out."

She smiled, glad that he felt comfortable enough to open up to her. But that didn't mean she was about to do the same to him.

"Back in high school, my mom used to just be a normal girl," he started in. "Beautiful, driven, smart. She didn't come from much, but she worked her ass off, and she was gonna go to college."

 _Was,_ Clarke thought. It was hard not to notice the use of the past tense.

"But when she was sixteen years old, she went to this party, got wasted," he went on. "There was this guy there, and he offered to drive her home, but . . ."

Clarke tensed, sensing where this was going before he even said it.

"He didn't take her home. He took her out on some back roads and raped her."

 _Oh god,_ she thought, not at all prepared for this. She hadn't known . . . she just hadn't known.

"Tossed her out of the car when he was done with her." Bellamy's jaw clenched, a clear sign of his anger as he told her all of this. "And he went to jail for six months, but . . . you know, six months. What's that gonna do?" He sighed heavily. "But it was nine months for her, because she got pregnant, decided to keep the baby, and . . ." He shrugged. "A couple months later, I was born."

Clarke's mouth started to drop open as she stared at him in stunned disbelief. He was . . . he'd been conceived in _that_ way?

Oh _god_. No wonder he was so adamant about keeping an eye on her at Grounders then. He didn't want the things that had happened to his mom to happen to her.

"Anyway, that . . . that changed everything for her," he said sadly. "She couldn't go to college anymore, so she started workin' these crap jobs to take care of me. Her parents kicked her out. And she got pretty depressed, so she got into drugs. I remember being really little and just smelling it all over the house. Seeing it, even."

She didn't know what to say. How was someone supposed to respond to all that? She'd known for a while now that Bellamy's background wasn't the greatest, but she'd never imagined that it could be this bad. "That's awful," she said, feeling guilty now that she'd even spent any time complaining about her stupid princess nickname today.

"Oh, but it gets worse, 'cause see, drugs cost money, and money isn't something she had," he continued. "So she _got_ money. By sleeping with men who would pay her."

Clarke's eyebrows rose up. "You mean . . ." She didn't want to say it.

But Bellamy said it, no problem. "Prostitution, yeah. So she became the town whore. _And_ a drug addict. And a single mom. She doesn't even know who Octavia's dad is. Just one of the guys she . . ." He shook his head. "Anyway, all the money she got, it didn't go to us or tryin' to better our lives. It went to drugs. So there were times growing up when we didn't have enough to eat, didn't have a roof over our heads. I went to school with clothes that had holes in them, sat with all the other free-lunch kids 'cause they were the only ones who didn't make fun of me."

Clarke remembered seeing those kids at her own school, and how infrequently she'd talked to them. "You made it seem like you were popular," she said.

"Oh, I _got_ popular when I got older. You know how small towns are. If you're good at sports, you got it made."

That was definitely true. Finn's family wasn't especially affluent, either, but everybody had been drawn to him because of his talent out on the field.

"But I never forgot some of the stuff I saw growing up," Bellamy said, a deep sadness in his eyes as he remembered. "I've sat locked in the bathroom with my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sounds of my mom getting gangbanged. I've seen guys hit her, slap her around, treat her like she's worthless. I mean, I kept Octavia from seeing it, but she still knows it happened."

Clarke couldn't even imagine seeing things like that growing up. The worst she'd ever seen or overheard was an argument between her parents here and there. But they'd kept most of that from her. They'd kept a lot of things. "You're a good big brother," she told him, hoping he knew that.

He shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know. I left home at eighteen. I left them."

"To try to make something of yourself so you could provide for them." It wasn't like he'd just taken off for the hell of it. He had his reasons, just like she did.

"Hell of a job I've done with that, huh?" he grunted.

She stared at him sympathetically, not sure why he hadn't had more success. In her estimation, he was everything soap operas and teen dramas looked for in a leading man. Good looks, a good personality, charisma . . .

"My mom, you know, she stopped trading sex for money back when I was in high school," he said. "But the drugs . . . that's harder for her to quit." He blinked rapidly, and she wasn't sure if he was blinking back tears. "She tries. She really has been trying. But she'll go a couple months or a year without, and then . . . she just slips up again."

Octavia had mentioned something about January. So apparently they were getting closer to that one year point. That had to be stressful on him, on both of them.

"I know I said sometimes I think about going back there to try to take care of them," he said, "but then other times I think . . . I think she's better off without me. Because when she looks at me, she remembers what happened to her all those years ago. And how it ruined her life."

She wanted to reach across the table and take his hand in hers. She honestly almost did. Because she just felt so bad for him. Knowing that you hadn't been planned was one thing, but knowing that you'd been the result of something so horrific and violent . . . surely Bellamy dwelled on it every single day. "I'm sure she still loves you," she said. Bellamy struck her as the type of guy that would be a really good son.

"I don't think so," he said sadly. "Not always. I mean, I love her, no matter what, but . . ." He let out a heavy exhale, his voice pained when he said, "I only exist because somebody raped her. And I don't know my father, and I don't want to, but I do know that, one time when she got mad at me, she told me I look just like him. So there's that."

She frowned, unable to picture anyone who looked even remotely similar to Bellamy being anything other than protective and kind. "It doesn't matter if you look like him," she said. "You're nothing like him."

"Or I'm just . . . nothing," he mumbled, picking apart the leftover pizza crust on his plate.

"That's not true."

Lifting his gaze, he challenged, "Then tell me, Clarke, what am I? Besides a failed actor and an outstanding bartender."

She looked into his eyes, warm brown eyes that had never looked at her as though she were worthless, and then down at his hands, hands that would never slap her or any other girl around. "You're a good man," she told him, sensing that he didn't quite believe that about himself, perhaps because of what he came from, or perhaps because of where he'd ended up.

He stared back at her, slowly smiling as he allowed her to make that claim about him. It had to be good to hear it, even if he didn't completely believe it. Maybe someday he would.

 _The brave princess and the good man,_ she thought, averting her eyes just a bit. They were quite the pair.


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16_

Bellamy trudged out into the hallway where Pike was waiting for him, ready to go home and go to bed. It'd been a lousy, unproductive day. Waste of fucking time was what this all was.

"So how'd it go?" his agent asked, sounding way too optimistic.

"Well, Commercial A said I was too tan, and Commercial B said I wasn't tan enough," Bellamy recounted. "So not great, Pike. I'm gettin' frustrated."

"I sense that." Pike sighed heavily. "Well, I may have found something else that might interest you." He stepped in front of Bellamy and pulled a script out of the inside pocket of his jacket. It was substantial, so that meant it wasn't just a commercial this time.

"A play?" Bellamy asked, surveying the title. It was called _Innocence_.

"Been a while since you've done one of those, hasn't it?" Pike smiled excitedly.

"It's not like you forget how." Bellamy flipped it open, skimmed through the first few lines, and asked, "Is it any good?"

"I think so."

He knew that didn't mean anything, though. Pike probably hadn't even read it, at least not beyond the first page.

"Take it home and read through it, let me know what you think," Pike urged.

 _Good thing I like to read,_ Bellamy thought, fanning through the pages. It definitely wasn't a short play.

He began reading right away and was already on the third page of Act One when he got out to his car. His eyes were buried in the pages, and he was concentrating so deeply on the dialogue that he almost didn't hear the "Hello, gorgeous," that was directed his way.

It took him only a second to recognize Bree's voice. "Great," he muttered, not turning around to see her just yet.

"You look just as good as I remember," she remarked, gliding up behind him.

Her proximity made it impossible not to pay attention to her, so reluctantly, he turned around and tried not to notice the short skirt she was wearing. "What're you doin' here?"

"Auditioning," she replied.

He made a face. "You act now?"

"Yeah, I did a commercial last month."

Well, that was new. The old Bree had lived off a monthly allowance from her rich daddy back in upstate New York. Maybe he'd finally cut her off.

"Don't look so surprised," she said. "I can act, you know. I mean . . . I do it all the time." She leaned in, her body close to his, and went on, "I act like I'm over you, but I'm not. I act like I don't constantly crave the feel of your hands on my body. But I do."

 _Oh, Jesus,_ he thought as she smoothed her hands up his chest to rest on his pectoral muscles.

"What about you?" she asked softly. "Do you think about my hands?"

He hadn't, not until right now when they were on him. He took them in his, though, and pulled them off. "I've felt plenty of hands since we broke up," he informed her, not even bothering to sugarcoat it.

"Me, too, but it's not the same," she whined. "I miss you, Bellamy. Don't you miss me, too?"

Did he? He missed the regular sex, not that he was lacking even now. But Bree had always been down to fuck, any time, any day, anywhere. But he didn't miss _her_. In fact, looking at her right now . . . she wasn't even the prettiest girl he knew. And she definitely didn't have a personality working her favor.

Even though he knew it was probably a bad idea, Bellamy took Bree home that night, got in bed with her, and fucked her hard for old time's sake.

"Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!" she screamed as he pounded into her. She curled her legs around his waist, squeezing his hips with her thighs as she came, a long and drawn out " _Ohhhh_ " on her lips. He thrust into her a few more times, making the bed squeak loudly, and he eventually got off, too. It was . . . fine. Not the greatest, most mind-blowing orgasm of all time, but an orgasm nonetheless. Those always felt good.

Once they were done, he pulled out of her and lay down on his back, reaching beneath the covers to remove his condom. He disposed of it in his bedside trash can and then reached over onto his nightstand to pick up that _Innocence_ script. He opened to the page where he'd left off and continued reading.

"What're you doing?" Bree said, curling up on her side. "Are you seriously gonna read right now?"

"Uh-huh." This opening act was surprisingly intriguing.

"But we could fool around some more," she suggested.

He could have lied, could have told her he had an audition tomorrow or something, and maybe she would have backed off. But there wasn't really any need to lie to Bree; in fact, he _wanted_ to be completely honest. "I don't really want to," he said bluntly. One last roll in the hay was enough.

"Never mind," she grumbled, flinging the covers aside. "I forgot I'm dealing with a humungous _jerk_." She crawled over him, grabbed her clothes off the floor, and got dressed in record timing. Shoes in hand, she stomped out the door, slamming it shut behind her, and Bellamy barely paid her any attention. He flipped the page, interested to see where the story in front of him would go next.

He was a fast reader, so an hour later, he'd finished the whole play. And Pike was right—for once. He _was_ into it. The male lead was exactly the kind of part he wanted to play. Relatable, complex, far from perfect . . . there just weren't enough of those roles out there.

He got up, got dressed, and knocked on the door to Clarke's apartment. When she opened it, he was sort of delighted to see her in a Student Council t-shirt and plaid pajama shorts. A far cry from the clothes she wore in the club, but she looked hot as hell anyway.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she echoed. "Is it just you, or did _Bree_ tag along?"

Undoubtedly, she'd heard them going at it, because Bree definitely hadn't bothered to be quiet. "She's gone," he said, stepping inside.

Clarke tugged her shorts down a bit and went into the living room. "Are you seriously getting back with her? You could do so much better."

"It was just sex," he said, following her. "One-time thing." He peered down the hall, trying to see if either the bedroom or bathroom lights were on, but they weren't. "Is Finn around?"

"No," she replied, sitting down on the couch.

"Good. I was wondering if you could help me with something."

"Why didn't you ask Bree?"

"Because, it's . . . a different kind of help." He sat down next to her, glancing at the TV long enough to notice that she was watching _Grey's Anatomy._ She changed the channel quickly, though, before he could see too much. "I'm auditioning for a part in a play," he told her. "I've only got a couple days to prepare. I want it to be good."

Turning down the volume on what was now appeared to be a documentary about flatworms, she said, "Well, I'm sure it will be."

"I need to practice," he said, "but I need someone to read the female part." He handed her the script, opening it up to the specific scene they were using for casting. He'd already highlight all his lines, of which there were many. It was a _very_ dialogue-heavy play.

"I don't know how to act, Bellamy," she said.

"You don't have to. Just read the lines." Hell, that was what the casting agents did. They added a little enthusiasm here and there, but for the most part, it was like acting with a blank slate.

"What's it about?" she asked.

"About love. Sometimes," he answered.

"Sometimes?"

"Well, and heartbreak." He was no expert, but it seemed to him that the two things often went hand in hand, especially in the acting world. "See, there's this couple, and they're in love, but then the guy screws it up. He's got all this self-doubt, so he just pushes her away, sets her free. But she comes back to him and . . . well, it's a happy ending."

She made a skeptical face. "That sounds horrible."

"What's so bad about a happy ending?" he teased.

"Nothing. It just sounds like a Hallmark movie."

"I'd love to be in a Hallmark movie." Ridiculous as they were, at least it would have put him on the map, maybe been enough to get him his own IMDB page. "I'd love to be in _any_ movie."

She looked at him sympathetically for a moment, then agreed, "Okay, I'll help you practice." Clearing her throat exaggeratedly, she looked down at her first line on the page and started in. " _How could you do this to me?_ "

" _I'm doing what's best for you,_ " he said, trying to recall what he'd read." _I know you don't understand . . ._ " He waited for her to interject, because he was fairly certain the girl was supposed to interrupt him there. "That's you."

"Oh, sorry." She flipped her hair over her shoulder and continued on. " _Of course I don't understand. You said you loved me. You said we'd be together forever._ "

" _Well, forever just got cut a little bit short._ " He wasn't sure how he was going to deliver that line. It sounded rehearsed no matter how he said it, and he wanted to sound natural.

Clarke broke into laughter then, apologizing, "I'm sorry, this is so cheesy."

"Just keep going."

Sighing, she droned, " _You're_ my _forever. Without you, I have nothing._ "

" _No, without me, you have everything. You have everything I can't give you, everything I wish I could. You have your whole life, your whole future. I'm just holding you back._ "

" _You're not,_ " she whimpered over-dramatically.

" _Yes, I am._ " He tried to remember what came next, and he wasn't sure, so he just said, " _And the sooner you understand that . . . the better off you'll be?_ Is that the line?"

"Yeah."

"And I haven't really looked through the rest."

"So you have to know this whole scene before you audition?" She flipped over onto the next page, where he had an entire paragraph of dialogue highlighted to learn.

"Yeah. It's not too hard. Memorizing's the easy part," he said. "It's getting all the feeling behind it, conveying the emotion . . . that's what's hard."

"Because it's about love?" she guessed.

"Because I've never _been_ in love before," he admitted.

She tilted her head to the side curiously. "Never?"

"No." He didn't know what it felt like, and to be quite honest, he didn't really care to. He had enough other stuff in his life to manage. No need to throw something like that into the mix, too. "I mean, I love my sister, and . . . despite all her problems, I love my mom, too. But that's different."

She peered at him closely, saying, "Hmm," and shaking her head as if she were surprised. "Well, we'll just have to practice a lot then."

"Yeah, can we run that again?" Right now, it was shaky at best, and he really wanted this part, so it had to get a whole lot better in a few days.

"Sure." She said, once again clearing her throat before she read the very first line. " _How could you do this to me?_ " she shrieked, using her hands to unnecessarily emphasize each word.

"Not so dramatic, William Shatner," he teased. "Tone it down a little."

"Sorry," she said, smiling with embarrassment before they continued on with the scene.

...

November in New York was . . . pretty cold. Colder than Clarke had anticipated. She'd figured that, after doing Kansas winters all her life, she could handle anything. But here it was, not even _technically_ winter yet, and she was freezing. She'd made the mistake of not wearing a coat to the grocery store today, and she was regretting it now, especially since the heater in her car didn't seem to be working.

She stood at the gas station, holding the pump in the gas tank as fuel flowed through. Shaking and shivering, she wished she'd at least put on that winter hat Bellamy had gotten her. Clearly it was time to start bundling up.

Once she was done getting her gas, she was about to get back in her car and leave when she heard something around the side of the building. Sounds, scuffling sounds. She heard a girl whimpering and saying, "Stop," right before she heard a gruff voice growl, "Come on, bitch, give me what I want."

Clarke's heart began to pound. Not knowing what to do, she crept around the side of the station, and she saw exactly what she'd been afraid of seeing. There, pinned up against the wall by a much larger man was a young girl. Pretty and pretty terrified. When Clarke caught sight of her face, she recognized her. Ontari.

"Not so rough," Ontari cried as he grabbed her wrists and held them up by her head.

"I'll be as rough as I want," the man claimed as he rubbed himself up against her. He had his pants unzipped and _everything_ was hanging out.

"I told you I'd suck your dick, not fuck it," Ontari said.

"Changed my mind. I want that pussy. Come here." When she tried to squirm, he just held her tighter and started to hike her skirt up.

"Hey!" Clarke yelled, distracting him. "Get away from her!"

He did back away, but only enough to zip his pants up. "Get outta here, little girl," he said. "This doesn't concern you."

Panic surged through her, but she wasn't about to back down now. "Maybe you didn't hear me, but I said _get away_ ," she repeated, trying to conceal her fear as she marched towards them.

"No, maybe you didn't hear _me_." His much bigger hands jutted out, grabbing her by the shoulders, and he pushed her into the wall. The side of her head hit, and it hurt.

"Oh!" she yelped, wincing.

Apparently the sleazebag had had enough, though. He muttered, "Screw this. More trouble than it's worth," and stalked off.

Clarke stood there shaking even after he was gone, and she didn't know how Ontari looked so calm. "Are you okay?" she asked her, figuring she could at least give her a ride home now if she needed one.

"I'm fine. You should mind your own business, you stupid bitch," Ontari snapped, pushing past Clarke.

Shoulders slumping, Clarke reluctantly accepted that she wasn't going to get any thanks for this. Not that she needed any. She'd done the right thing here, and she didn't regret it. But still . . . it freaked her out. And her right eye was in some serious pain.

Clarke could tell her eye was going to swell from the second she got back in her car and took a look at herself in the rear view mirror. By the time she got home, it was full on bruising. She had a black eye. She _literally_ had a black eye. Hadn't had one of those since the fifth grade, when one of the tougher girls in school had invited her to play tether ball at recess. Instead of hitting the ball, that girl had hit her square in the face. But this injury wasn't the result of tether ball, and it hadn't come from a girl.

It was . . . unsettling to say the least.

She wasn't sure how she was going to explain it to Finn, but she didn't have to explain it for a while since he didn't get home when he said he would. Unfortunately, Bellamy came knocking on her door early that evening, and telling him wasn't going to be much easier.

"Clarke? You home?" he called from the hallway. "I wanna run these lines with you again."

 _Oh, no,_ she thought, turning down the volume on her TV. Maybe if she just pretended not to be home . . . oh, but he had to know she was home. Her car was outside, and he'd probably seen it, so . . .

She slinked to the door and shut off the light, making it completely dark in the living room except for the light coming from the TV. When she opened the door, he said, "Hey," and then looked inside confused. "What were you in the middle of, a séance?"

"I fell asleep on the couch," she lied.

"Are you awake enough to practice with me?" He came inside and flicked on the lights, and she quickly turned away and put her head down, letting her hair fall down around the side of her face.

"Actually, um . . . I don't know. I was thinking of maybe going to bed early," she said, pretending to be all interested in pouring herself a glass of water out of the kitchen sink. That way, she didn't have to look at him.

"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "At 7:00?"

Was it really that early? This was a dumb lie. "Tired," she said simply.

He came into the kitchen, standing beside her, leaning against the counter. He didn't say anything, just watched her intently, and she felt like she was being super obvious by not even glancing over at him. But if she did and he saw that black eye, he'd freak out.

Bellamy was a smart guy, though, and he knew something was up. Putting his hand on her face, he got her to turn and look at him, and his whole body tensed when he saw her injury. "What happened?"

It really wasn't as bad as it looked, she supposed, so she might as well tell him the truth. "I was at the gas station . . . and Ontari was there," she explained.

" _She_ did this to you?"

"No. This guy was forcing himself on her right out in public, so . . . I tried to put a stop to it, and he . . . he pushed me into a wall. And then he left. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You have a black eye."

"But I saved Ontari," she pointed out. "Not that she was grateful."

Slowly, he brought his fingers up to touch the bruised, swollen skin around her eye. His fingertips were gentle, and there was a comforting tenderness in his touch. "You gotta be careful, Clarke," he said.

"Well, what was I supposed to do, just turn a blind eye and let her get attacked?"

"No, but go inside, get a manager or somebody else who works there."

"By then, I might've been too late." She didn't regret stepping in. Yes, it'd been scary, but she'd done what she needed to do.

"You could've gotten hurt a lot worse, Clarke," he pointed out. "Or he could've ended up forcing himself on you instead. I doubt Ontari would've been so helpful."

Well . . . maybe that was true. But it didn't matter. She hadn't been the victim there, and Ontari had been. "It _was_ a little scary," she admitted, hoping she wouldn't find herself in that kind of situation again. "I just feel kind of bad for her, you know? Clearly she's going down this awful path, and . . ." Lowering her head, she mumbled, "I know it's partly my fault."

Bellamy frowned. "How?"

"Because I basically took her job."

"No, you got hired. She got fired. That's it."

"They wouldn't have fired her if I hadn't come along." She wasn't arrogant enough to think that she was even _halfway_ as good of a dancer as Ontari was, but . . . it was no secret that Anya was putting a lot of faith in her and that she and Luna were relying on her to step up in Ontari's absence. "I just—I feel guilty," she admitted. "I know she's not a nice girl, but I wanna do something to help her, or at least try to. You know?"

Bellamy sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Just let me handle it," he said, turning to leave.

Grabbing his arm, she pulled him back. "Wait, what're you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go find her, try to talk to her," he told her. "But if she doesn't wanna help herself, there's only so much I can do, Clarke."

She nodded, thinking of her parents, how she'd tried to help them get back together instead of getting a divorce. They hadn't wanted that, so there wasn't anything she could do there. It was a hard pill to swallow, and if Ontari turned down her help, too, it'd be another very hard pill. "Well, I'll come with you," she said.

"No, you can't," he said. "That club that she's working at . . . I can't bring you there."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he wouldn't let her get a word in.

"Please, Clarke," he begged. "If you come, I'm just gonna be worried about you the whole time."

Any words of protest just faded away, because she knew that was true. If it came down to looking out for her or looking out for Ontari, Bellamy Blake would choose her. So if she went along, maybe it would just defeat the purpose. Besides, selfishly, she really wasn't all that eager to venture into neighborhoods even worse than her own.

...

The only time Bellamy had ever been to Polis was years ago when Pike had dragged him there. He'd been drunk and pissed about a part in a television pilot he'd _almost_ landed, and Pike's method of cheering him up at been strippers. But as far as strip clubs went, this place was notorious. It had a reputation for being a little more than _just_ a strip club, and those girls who had shown up at Grounders on Halloween definitely hadn't done anything to squash the rumors.

There weren't nearly as many people there as there usually were at Grounders; in fact, it was pretty deserted. Only a few guys loitered around the stage, but they looked like real losers. Huge beer bellies, and they were only chugging more. They were old, old enough to have children, daughters who were maybe the same age as the girls they were watching.

Shaking his head in disgust, Bellamy ventured to the far back of the club, where all the 'private rooms' were located. Everybody knew what happened in those private rooms. Pike had gone into one and come out looking a hell of a lot happier than he had when he'd gone in. Bellamy hadn't ever gone in one, hadn't wanted to, and even now, he still didn't want to. But he had a feeling that was where he would find Ontari.

A scrawny guy stood in the hall, preventing Bellamy from getting any further. "Who you here for?" he asked.

He wasn't _there_ for anyone, not in that way. But he answered, "Ontari," and handed over a small wad of cash.

The guy checked his watch and said, "About five more minutes."

 _Five more minutes with some class act of a guy,_ Bellamy thought. Was she boning someone like these guys out by the stage?

There was nowhere else to wait but out in the club, but Bellamy hated it out there. The girl on the stage wasn't as young as Clarke, but she still had to be in her mid-twenties. She didn't seem to have a dance background at all, because she kind of just stumbled around up there on the stage. She looked . . . high, honestly. She had the same expression on her face that his mom had when she was on something. And when the men watching her reached up and slapped her ass or slipped some dollar bills into the side of her thong, she pretended to be enthused about it.

He recognized that look from his mom, too.

A shiver traversed his spine as he remembered all the men who had walked in and out of their house back when he'd been growing up, men who had gone up to her bedroom and . . . He shut his eyes and tried to block out the sounds. But it all came flooding back.

"You're a good little whore," one of the men told the stripper. Like it was supposed to be a compliment.

 _Don't call her that,_ Bellamy wanted to say. But he wasn't there to help that girl. He wasn't even _really_ there to help Ontari. He was there for Clarke, for someone who definitely _could_ still be saved.

The five minute wait only ended up taking two minutes, and when the guy monitoring the hall motioned Bellamy back, he shoved his hands in his pockets and wracked his brain for what the hell he was going to say. He and Ontari had never been friends like he and Clarke were, never really had been close at all. If she listened to anything he had to say, it'd be a goddamn miracle. He wasn't holding his breath for that.

"Twenty minutes," the hallway guy told him, leading him into a room. He motioned for Bellamy to walk in, then shut the door. There was a round blue couch for him to sit on a pole for Ontari to strip on. She wasn't even fully dressed yet, though. Her back was to him now, but she was still hooking her bra back together, and other than that, all she was wearing was a thong.

"Well, well, well, look who it is," she purred sultrily when she looked over her shoulder and laid eyes on him. "Guess you finally wanted a taste."

"I'm not here for that."

She pouted. "Why not? You're one customer I'd actually enjoy sleeping with."

"I came to talk to you," he explained.

She narrowed her eyes skeptically. "We don't _talk_ back here," she informed him. "You sit, I strip, and whatever happens after that . . . well, it's up to you." She swayed towards him, grabbed both his hands in hers, and put them on her waist. "I always wanted to hook up with you," she said. "You're so hot."

"We're not gonna hook up," he told her, pulling his hands away. Yeah, Ontari was a hot girl herself, but she'd been a hell of a lot hotter when she'd first started at Grounders, back when her nickname had been Ice Queen instead of Number One.

"Well, at least let me dance for you, so you can get your money's worth," she said, pushing gently on his shoulders. Reluctantly, he sat down on the couch, just so she wouldn't have her hands all over him anymore. She started traipsing around the pole, much less powerful and exciting than she'd been at Grounders. In fact, she looked kind of bored, even with him back there.

"I heard about what happened at the gas station today," he started in.

Ontari rolled her eyes. "What, did the precious Girl Next Door come home with an injury? Did you kiss it and make it better?"

"She told me what happened. She feels bad about . . . everything that went down at Grounders. I told her I'd come talk to you."

"Because we're such close friends." Ontari grunted, rolling her body along the length of the pole. "Save it, Bellamy. I don't wanna hear it."

"Maybe you need to," he suggested. "Look around. Look where you are. This is a downgrade."

"It's not so bad." She hopped up on the pole and did a halfhearted spin, holding on with one arm while the other flailed out to the side. "Besides, Grounders has _Clarke_ now. Sweet, innocent Clarke."

Well, she got that right at least. Clarke was sweet. And somehow, she was still pretty innocent.

"Tell me, what's so special about her?" Ontari asked as she slid down off the pole again. "Because you can find a hot blonde anywhere. And she's beginner-level when it comes to her dancing. I can do so much more than she can. And fine, okay, she's got a good rack, but I would've had one, too, if Roan had been able to pay for that instead of . . . other things." She looked down at the floor when she said that, looking so immediately sad that Bellamy _knew_ the abortion she'd had actually affected her. She wasn't as emotionless about her life as people thought. There was still a human being in there somewhere.

"Roan ditched you now, didn't he?" he guessed. "Now that you're not Number One."

She snorted. "Roan's got his eye on a new prize now."

 _Clarke,_ he thought, his stomach knotting up. It was obvious, but still, hearing it from Ontari . . . it was confirmation.

"Do you really wanna waste time here with me when perfect little Clarke needs you?" Ontari taunted as she slowly unclasped her bra.

No. He really didn't.

"You like her, don't you?" Ontari grinned. "Oh, Anya would have a field day with that one. Her hottest stripper and her hottest bartender. That's a train wreck waiting to happen."

"She's my friend," he corrected.

Ontari narrowed her eyes at him skeptically. "Since when do you have female friends?"

He didn't. Clarke was . . . the exception. For whatever reason.

"If she was the one in this room right now, we both know you'd have your hands all over her." Ontari turned around, bending over to give him quite the view as she slipped out of her thong. "You'd fuck the hell out of her, so why don't you just do me instead? And pretend I'm her."

"Ontari . . ." He shook his head, trying to look anywhere but at her naked body. "I told you, I'm not here for that."

"Then what exactly are you here for?" She stood up straight, rubbing her hands all over her body. "To talk me to death?"

"I'm here to get you outta here," he told her. "Come on, you don't need this place."

"Well, Grounders doesn't need me."

"Just come back there, see if Anya would re-hire you."

"After that stint I pulled on Halloween?" She grunted. "It's not gonna happen, Bellamy. This is where I work now. And I'm good at my job, so . . ." She swung her leg over his lap suddenly, sitting down, straddling him. "Let me do my job." She tried to roll her hips against him, but he wasn't having any of that. He grabbed her hips and lifted her up.

"Put your clothes on," he told her. "And don't take 'em off for the next guy who walks in here." He got up and headed for the door, hoping that, even though she wasn't leaving with him, something he said had gotten through to her. Because as much as he didn't _like_ Ontari, he still _knew_ her, and it wasn't fun seeing her life go down this route.

"Bellamy," she said as he reached for the door.

He stopped short of opening it and slowly turned back around.

She was looking at the floor again, one hand on her stomach now, and when she raised her eyes to look into his, she looked like she was being genuine with him for the first time since he'd walked in there. "Do you think she's gonna turn out like me?" she asked quietly.

If Clarke ever ended up in a club like this, in a room like this, he'd physically carry her out if he had to. But he had to make sure she never ended up here in the first place. "Not if I can help it," he said, leaving the room.

The hallway guy gave him a confused look as he walked out. "Hey, you still got more time," he called after him.

"Don't need it." He just needed to get out of there. For the first time since Clarke had gotten the job at Grounders, he was actually _glad_ she was working there. Not that he was thrilled or would ever stop trying to convince her that there were other jobs out there for her; but if a place like this was the alternative for now, then . . . at least Grounders was safer.

...

Clarke tried to sit and watch TV while she waited for Bellamy to come back, but she mostly just paced around, thinking about what _she_ would say to Ontari if she were the one going to talk to her. Chances were, Ontari would just ignore her, though, so it probably was best that Bellamy go. He stood a better chance of getting through to her than Clarke did.

About an hour after he'd left, she heard a knock on her door. She looked through the peephole, saw that it was him, and opened the door eagerly. "How'd it go?" she asked.

"Not so good," he admitted, coming inside. "She didn't wanna talk to me; she just wanted to take her clothes off."

"Oh." Suddenly she was picturing Ontari dancing for Bellamy and . . . well, it was nothing he hadn't seen before, she supposed.

"Yeah, she didn't give a damn about what I was saying."

"And what'd you say?"

He sighed. "I tried to tell her to come back to Grounders and talk to Anya. I told her to think about where she was now and how far she's fallen. But Clarke . . . you can't save somebody who doesn't wanna be saved. She just _really_ lost herself a long time ago. I'm not sure anyone can find her anymore."

She frowned, feeling like that didn't necessarily have to be true. "But-" she began to protest.

"No, trust me, I wish there was something more we could do," Bellamy said. "But I went through this with my mom. I tried to get her to stop, but she had to make that decision on her own. And it took her a while, but eventually, she did. She stopped trading sex for money, but it had to be her choice."

Clarke swallowed hard, nodding solemnly. She didn't know Ontari all that well, but one thing she did know about her was that she was _very_ headstrong. It wasn't like either one of them stood a shot at changing her mind and getting her to reevaluate her life choices.

"Hey, don't feel guilty," Bellamy said, touching her cheek. "None of this is your fault."

It was nice of him to say that, of course, but she still felt kind of guilty. "I just wish there was something I could do," she said.

"That's because you're a good person."

She looked into his eyes, smiling sadly. It was nice of him to say that, too.

"I gotta get some sleep," he said, reaching for the door. "Got my audition tomorrow."

"Well, do you still wanna run those lines?" she asked. "We can do that, if you want."

"No, I'm tired," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow, Clarke."

"See you," she echoed as he left. God, she really hoped he didn't bomb his audition tomorrow because of all this. She didn't think he would, because she'd heard him read the part, and he did it really well. He seemed like a good actor, so she saw no reason why they wouldn't want to cast him.

Maybe he had the right idea. Maybe it was time to go to bed. It'd ended up being a weird day, so curling up in bed and waiting for Finn to get home didn't sound so bad. She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, deliberately _not_ looking at her reflection because the black eye kind of freaked her out. It'd fade, but for now, it just hurt.

Finn got home earlier than she'd anticipated, and when he walked in the door, he chimed, "Babe, I'm home."

She spit and rinsed, then chanced a glance at her face in the mirror. The bruising wasn't as dark as it could have been, and it felt worse than it looked. Finn wasn't going to know what to think, and she was a little worried to show him.

"Hey," she said, slinking out into the dark hallway. "Don't freak out, okay?"

"Okay," he said confusedly, putting his camera down on the counter. "What's-" He stopped short when she stepped into the light of the living room, revealing her injury to him. "Oh my god," he said. "What happened?"

"Oh, I just . . . I kind of got in the middle of this thing today," she explained vaguely at first. "A girl I used to work with was getting assaulted by this guy, so I tried to help her and . . . well, the guy pushed me into a wall, pretty much. But that's it. And she's okay, too. I mean, she's not _okay_ , but . . . he left, so mission accomplished, I guess."

"Oh, man, Clarke." Finn closed the gap between them and put his hands on her shoulders. "Please be careful, okay?"

She nodded, pretty sure she'd continue to see things and hear things in this city that were . . . dangerous. Drug-dealers, gunshots down the street, sexual assault . . . they seemed like everyday occurrences. And then, of course, there was still Roan to watch out for.

Finn kissed her cheek and then eased past her, heading into the bathroom and shutting the door. He probably wanted to take a shower before bed. He was probably tired. He'd been working all day. He always worked all day.

She exhaled heavily, trying not to be disappointed by his reaction. He'd been concerned just now. He had. Just . . . just not as concerned as Bellamy had been.


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17_

"Next!"

Bellamy tried to project confidence but not arrogance as he strutted out onto the stage. "Hi, I'm Bellamy Blake," he introduced himself to the two people sitting in the front row, a man and a woman who were both dressed in all black, neither of whom looked very excited about the auditions they'd seen so far today.

"That's a good stage name," the man said.

"No, actually, that's my real name," Bellamy informed him.

"Really? _Bellamy?_ "

He shrugged. Yeah, it was weird, and it was more of a last name than a first name. But it was his name, and by now, he was kind of attached to it.

"Well, Bellamy, this is Gina," the man said, introducing him to the woman sitting up on a stool on the stage. She had light brown curly hair and a smile on her face. "She's been cast to play Alyssa," the man explained. "You'll be reading with her today. Now are you here to audition for the part of Nathan or Joshua?"

"Uh, Nathan."

The man who currently held Bellamy's professional fate in his hands cocked his head to the side skeptically. "Is that so?"

Bellamy flapped his arms against his sides. "So it is." He was used to getting typecast because of his dark hair and darker skin. Most of the time, these casting agents pigeon-holed him for antagonist roles, but he had more range than that.

"Bellamy, you don't really match the look we had in mind for Nathan," the man informed him bluntly after whispering a few things to the woman beside him.

Of course he didn't. What the fuck else was new? "In other words, I'm not all-American enough, huh?" he concluded.

"Would you consider reading for Joshua instead?"

And _of course_ they'd asked him to do that. "But he's the bad guy," he protested. That wasn't the part he wanted to play.

"Yes."

He sighed, feeling like he pretty much had to do what they wanted, otherwise he wouldn't land _any_ part. "Sure," he reluctantly agreed. Opening his script, he asked the girl on stage, Gina, "What page?"

"Seven," she replied.

He skimmed the scene, remembering how he'd reacted to reading it. The scene between Joshua and Alyssa was reminiscent of so many of the fights he'd heard his mom have with every low-life loser she'd called her boyfriend over the years. It was as if whoever had written this had been in his home growing up, because some of the lines were almost word for word what he recalled.

"Whenever you're ready," the casting agent said.

He took a deep breath, trying to get himself in character to play a part he didn't really want to, one he didn't connect with.

It was Alyssa's line first, so Gina started in. "Why are you always so mean to me?" she cried tearfully.

"Because you deserve it," he shot back. "Why are you always such a . . ." He stopped short of saying the next two words. _Fucking whore._ Even if it was just acting, he didn't wanna say that. He thought again of his mom, of how many times he'd heard people call her that, and worse, of how many times she'd called _herself_ that. And it sent chills up his spine. "No, you know what? I don't wanna do this," he decided, breaking character before he'd even gotten into it. "I wanna read for the role of Nathan. I don't care if I'm not the look you have in mind. That's the part I rehearsed."

Both casting agents looked surprised that he'd taken a stand.

"Please, let me be . . ." He trailed off, re-choosing his words. "Let me _play_ the good guy. That's who I wanna be."

The man narrowed his eyes and suggested, "Perhaps this play isn't quite the right fit for you."

 _Perhaps not,_ he thought. He wasn't reading that other part. So if they wouldn't give him the chance, then he'd cut his losses and go home. Sure, he liked the storyline, but there would be other parts. And he probably wouldn't get those parts, either.

"No, I think you should let him read," Gina piped up suddenly. "Nathan's a passionate character, after all. Don't we want someone who's passionate about the part portraying him?"

Clearly they valued her opinion, because the man and the woman both looked at each other, nodded, and changed their minds. "Alright," he said. "Impress us, Bellamy Blake."

He took a deep breath, hoping he would.

...

This whole black eye business was going to interfere with Clarke's business, as it turned out. She showed up at the club early to rehearse, but when Anya caught sight of her, she told her to get down off the pole and explain how the injury had occurred. After Clarke told her everything, she shook her head sadly and said, "I'm sorry, Clarke, but there's no way I can let you perform with a black eye."

"But I can just cake on the makeup. Nobody will notice," Clarke insisted.

Still, Anya shook her head. "No, no, I'll give Roma the opening routine tonight. I'm sure she could use the money."

"You know who else could use the money? Me."

"Once it's healed, you dance again. Got it?"

She exhaled heavily, left with no choice but to accept that. "Got it." Hopefully it healed fast, because she and Harper had finished choreographing their duo routine, and they wanted to perform it sooner rather than later so that they both had some extra money on hand for Black Friday shopping in a few weeks.

"Now you're telling me the truth, though, right?" Anya asked skeptically. "Your boyfriend didn't do this to you?"

"No, he would never hurt me."

"Good."

"The guys Ontari's hanging out with, though . . . they'll hurt her." Again she sighed, feeling . . . sort of defeated. She couldn't dance, she couldn't help out Ontari. Was there anything she actually _could_ do? "Do you think there's any way she could get another chance here?" she asked, well aware how odd it was for her to be lobbying for the girl who hated her guts.

Anya's answer was a decided one. "No. I can't have her working here anymore, not after what she pulled on Halloween. And she attacked you. I won't condone that."

Clarke opened her mouth to protest.

"But . . ." Anya cut back in, "I will call her, see if I can do something to help her out. Thanks for letting me know, Clarke."

She nodded as Anya headed backstage, figuring that was better than nothing. At least her boss actually cared about her employees, both current and former. And Anya had known Ontari for a while. Maybe she could get through to her in a way she and Bellamy couldn't.

Looking up at the pole, she pictured Roma up there tonight instead of herself, and for the older girl's sake, she hoped she did a good job and raked in some cash. Selfishly, though, she hoped the people in the crowd would be disappointed that it wasn't her. She was building up a following, that was for sure, and she and Finn were spending every penny she made on basic necessities like food and clothing.

"Hey, guess what?"

She startled a bit when Bellamy sneaked up behind her. "What?" she asked as she turned around.

"I had my audition today."

He looked excited. Sounded excited. So hopefully that meant he had something to be excited about. "How'd it go?" she inquired, mentally crossing her fingers.

"I got the part," he replied.

"Really? Oh, Bellamy!" She hugged him, so happy that his hard work had paid off. "Congratulations. That's great."

Slowly, he released her from the hug and said, "Yeah, they offered it to me right on the spot. They said I surprised them."

"Well, of course. You practiced your ass off." He totally deserved this. She didn't know much about acting, but she knew that Bellamy was good.

"Yeah, I'm pretty stoked," he said. "I mean, it's not gonna launch me into stardom or anything, but it's the first big part I've had in a while. It's better than being Fry Guy."

"Yeah, it's exciting." She'd have to find out when and where his play was so that she could go see him. He watched her perform, whether he wanted to or not. She owed it to him to do the same. "We should go do something fun to celebrate," she suggested.

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. Turns out I'm not dancing."

He thought about it a moment, then said, "I'm not bartending."

She smiled, hoping that meant he'd take her around to see some more of the city. That'd been fun doing that the other day with Octavia and Ilian. But if it was just the two of them, they didn't have to listen to Octavia complain about how everything was so boring.

Bellamy took her up on her offer, but since she didn't know where to go, she left that up to him. He ended up taking her to the Brooklyn Bridge, and he told her they were going to walk across. It'd take a while, he warned her, but it was something every New Yorker had to do at least once.

"Wow. I gotta hand it to you, Bellamy, this is pretty neat," she said as they walked on the pedestrian bridge above the roaring traffic. The bridge gave her a great view of the skyline, one huge building after the next, and with the sun setting, it made New York look . . . different. Prettier, somehow. The twinkling lights of the city were starting to come alive for the night, and even the cars looked sort of pretty below them.

"Yeah, I figured you'd like it," he said. "Walk faster, though. I wanna get to the other side before sunset."

"This is my workout for the day," she decided as she picked up the pace. She didn't want to rush it, though. Bellamy may have walked this bridge before, but it was the first time for her. Clearly it wasn't meant to be rushed, because there were plaques with historical information along the way—although he seemed to have the history memorized, so she could just rely on him to tell her—and there were benches, too. So if her feet got tired, they could sit down for a couple of minutes. "God. There's nothing like this in Kansas," she marveled, taking in the sight of Lady Liberty in the distance.

"Well, Toto, you're not in Kansas anymore," he teased.

Ignoring the fact that he'd just referenced her as a dog, she laughed a little.

"Nothing like this in Louisiana, either," he said as they walked along. "I mean, there's a bridge close to where I live, but . . . not like this. But then again Louisiana has some things New York doesn't."

"Like that quality alligator meat."

"Yeah," he agreed emphatically. "And people are nicer, more trustworthy. For the most part."

 _For the most part,_ she thought, wondering how he'd turned out to be so nice and trustworthy himself when he must have seen so many men who weren't either of those things while he'd been growing up. "You think your mom will find somebody nice and trustworthy someday?" she asked.

"Hopefully," he said. "At least Octavia did."

Tilting her head to the side, she said, "Am I hearing that right? Did you really just voice _approval_ of your sister's boyfriend?"

Reluctantly, Bellamy admitted, "Ah, he's not a bad kid. He loves her. He'll take care of her. I mean, I wish they'd waited a little longer before they hit the sheets, but . . . other than that . . ." He trailed off and shrugged.

She grazed her hand along the railing, wondering if Octavia and Ilian would move here once they graduated. That would probably be a lot of anxiety for Bellamy, having to worry about his little sister in this big city. But he'd said he missed her, so maybe, in a way, it might be a good thing to have her around.

"What are all these locks?" she asked, running her hand up over a cluster of padlocks.

"Oh, it's like a . . . a couples tradition thing," he explained. "They bring locks and put 'em on here. It's supposed to symbolize . . . I don't know, commitment or something."

"Huh." Just the way he so flippantly said that made it clear that he'd never actually _had_ a commitment like that in his life before. "That's actually kind of sweet."

"Well, maybe you and Finn should put one on here," he suggested. "If you think you're gonna be together forever."

"Yeah, that's . . . that's not a bad idea." Maybe this weekend if they had some time to spend together, she could bring him out here and they could do that. He'd probably think it was cheesy, but . . . why not? "So when is this play gonna be?" she asked, changing the topic since Bellamy didn't seem too interested in talking about the locks.

"In about two months," he replied.

"That's really soon."

"Yeah, well, they had to recast two of the parts at last minute. So I gotta get it together pretty quick." He didn't seem to find that daunting. In fact, the prospect of learning and perfecting his part so quickly didn't seem to make him nervous at all. "It's gonna be a _lot_ of rehearsal," he said, running his hand through his unruly hair. "Late nights. I'm probably gonna have to cut back on some of my hours at the club."

 _Cut back?_ her mind registered. She hadn't thought about that. "Oh, so I won't . . . I won't be seeing as much of you then."

Grinning, he nudged her side as they walked and promised, "I'll make time for you, Clarke."

Thank God it was getting darker out, because she felt like she was blushing. "Here, can you take a picture of me?" she asked as they came upon another of the historical plaques.

"Sure." He whipped out his phone.

She stood by the railing, posing with one hand on her hip, one knee popped. "I just wanna post something online so everyone back home can be jealous." This spot seemed like as good of a photo op as any.

"Smile," he said as he positioned the camera.

She did, already envisioning the comments from all the most popular girls back home, the ones who'd bragged about how they were going to move out to California to become supermodels. Not one of them had followed through, and yet here she was in the Big Apple, on the Brooklyn Bridge, getting her picture taken.

A tiny Asian woman came up behind Bellamy and tapped him on the shoulder. "You want get in picture with her?" she asked with a very thick accent.

"Oh, me in the . . . in the picture?" He glanced at Clarke questioningly.

"I take your picture," the woman decided, taking his phone from him before he'd even answered.

"She takes our picture," Bellamy mumbled, going to stand beside her.

"Oh, that's . . . nice of her." Clarke tried not to inhale sharply when she felt his hand on the small of her back, but . . . Bellamy had nice big hands. Warm hands. And it wasn't exactly warm outside.

Once the woman had taken a _handful_ of photos of them, she gave Bellamy his phone back and declared, "Very pretty. Pretty couple," before she continued on her way.

 _Couple?_ Clarke thought. Did she and Bellamy look like a couple?

He just laughed it off, shaking his head. "You want me to send you all of these?" he asked.

"Uh, sure," she said, though she wasn't sure they would do anything other than sit on her phone. She couldn't very well post a picture of her and Bellamy looking all couple-y. Then everyone who commented on it would be like, 'Where's Finn?' or 'OMG did you and Finn break up?'

"So, um, I can help you rehearse and learn all your lines and stuff," she offered as they continued along the bridge. "If you want."

He sent the photos to her, then pocketed his phone. "You sure?"

"Yeah." She'd kind of had fun with it the other night, and with Finn spending so many of his evenings working late . . . well, it gave her something to do. "That's what friends are for, right?"

He grinned at her, the same way he grinned when they completed their mile runs and beat their previous best time. "Right."

...

Clarke's phone was ringing when she got out of the shower, and she was eager to answer it since it wasn't either of her parents' ringtones. It was Monty's. "Hey, braniac," she answered eagerly. "How's it goin'?"

"Oh, it's goin' good," he replied, having to talk loudly over all sorts of noise and music in the background. "You?"

Monty didn't know about the stripping, nor did she intend to tell him. "Never boring," she summarized.

"Yeah, I'm sure. New York City."

And he was still back in Kansas. At K-State university, where half the people from her graduating class had decided to attend. She wondered, did it even feel any different? Or did they all still have some kind of high school nostalgia permeating their lives? Because for her, high school felt like a world away, a different lifetime, almost. "Where are you?" she asked him.

"Oh, Jasper dragged me to a party," her friend replied. "I swear, he's spent more time living it up than he has attending class."

"Priorities." She laughed a little, picturing Jasper as one of those college kids who passed out in front of his dorm. He'd always been an average-achiever academically, and he'd made no secret of the fact that he intended to make four years of college into one giant party. In fact, he probably wouldn't be disappointed to have to do an extra year or two.

"We've got finals coming up next month," Monty said, and the noise in the background started to become fainter. Maybe that meant he'd found a secluded space at the party. "I gotta get him to study."

"I'm sure you and Maya can convince him." She sighed, wondering what their classes were like and if Monty had a new study partner now. It always used to be her. "So things are good?" she asked, plopping down on the couch. "College is still fun?"

"Yeah. Hard work, but it's good," he said. "We miss you, though."

That was . . . nice to hear. Even though she and her friends texted and talked on the phone and kept up with each other via social media . . . it wasn't the same as seeing them almost every single day. Nothing could replicate that. "Yeah, I miss you guys, too," she admitted. It was a good thing she had Bellamy and Harper here, because without them, she'd be sorely lacking in the friend department.

"So does that mean you're coming home for Thanksgiving then?" Monty inquired hopefully.

 _Thanksgiving._ She'd been trying not to think about it, even though she knew her mom was probably going to ask her about it the next time they talked. "I don't know," she answered honestly.

"Well, I'm sure your parents wanna see you."

She grunted skeptically. "I don't know about that. I'm not on the best terms with either one of them."

"I heard your mom's engaged."

"Yeah." She sighed heavily, trying not to think about that, either. "Look, Monty, to be honest . . . Thanksgiving . . . I don't really see that happening."

"You don't?" He sounded surprised.

"No. I'm sorry."

It took him a moment, but he finally said, "No, it's fine. You gotta do what's best for you, right?"

 _Right,_ she thought. And it _was_ what was best for her, making sure her clean break from Arkadia remained clean. Going back now, even just for a few days, it would reopen all that stress and anxiety she'd worked so hard to shut out of her life.

"Well, maybe Christmas then," he proposed.

"Maybe," she echoed softly, though she didn't have the heart to tell him that . . . no, Christmas wasn't happening, either. She was in New York now, and she wasn't going back.

That night, after Finn came home and they fooled around a bit, she lay in bed with him, her head and her hand on his chest, carefully broaching the same topic of conversation Monty had raised. "What're we gonna do on Thanksgiving?" she asked, not even sure if she knew _how_ to cook a turkey.

"Where'd that come from?" he asked, rubbing her upper arm and shoulder.

"Well, I was just thinking, it's not that far away," she said. "Do I need to go buy a turkey or . . ."

"Actually, I was . . ." Finn shifted around a bit, but he kept his arms around her. "I was kind of thinking it might be nice to head home over Thanksgiving."

She sat up a bit, staring at him in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

He nodded.

"Finn, we spent all summer daydreaming about our _escape_ from that place, and then we actually did it. And now you wanna go back?" It didn't make sense to her.

"Just for a few days," he said. "I wanna see my parents; I'm sure they wanna see me."

Well, therein lay the difference between them then, didn't it? Finn wasn't especially close to his mom or his dad, but he could go back and spend time with them without feeling like he was about to explode. Clarke didn't have that luxury. "I wanna stay here," she said.

"Well, I can make the drive on my own."

She frowned, picturing herself spending the holiday all on her own, cooking the tiniest turkey she could find, probably setting their whole apartment on fire in the process. "It's our first Thanksgiving out on our own and you wanna spend it apart?"

"I don't _want_ to, but . . ." He shrugged helplessly. "I don't wanna force you to go back home. And you don't wanna force me to stay here, right?"

"No, I don't wanna force you to do anything." If Finn wanted to see his family, then he should go home and see his family. But she wasn't going with him. "Okay, we'll just . . . we'll do our own thing then."

"We can cook up a big meal when I get back," he promised.

She tried to smile, but it probably wasn't convincing. Lying down again, she put her head back on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, wishing she could feel it just a little bit more.

...

Weeknights weren't the best, most lucrative nights at the club, but Clarke desperately needed some more money. Finn wanted to start saving up for a second car, and the one he had his eye on wasn't cheap. He'd finally gotten his paycheck, which was a major relief, but still, her income seemed like it was going to be their primary source of income for a while longer.

The first thing she noticed when she walked into the club was that . . . Bellamy wasn't working. Murphy and Niylah both were, and Niylah was helping out someone new behind the counter, someone Clarke didn't recognize. He spilled on the counter, then dropped and broke a glass, and it seemed that Niylah was having a hard time being patient with him.

Clarke sauntered over to the counter and remarked, "You look like you're about to pull your hair out."

"I am." Niylah cast an annoyed glance over her shoulder as the new guy swept up the broken shards of glass. "There's nothing worse than having to train a new bartender."

"New?" Clarke echoed worriedly. "Who's he replacing?"

"No one. Anya just wanted to hire some extra help since Bellamy's gonna be busy with his play."

Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief. Bellamy had warned her about this, that he'd be busier, that he wouldn't be working so many nights there for the next couple of weeks. But he was still working there, so . . . that was good.

Surveying the new and extremely young-looking bartender, Clarke asked, "Is he even twenty-one?"

"Twenty- _two_."

Her eyes bulged. "He looks fifteen."

"And he acts it."

When the clumsy boy—man, whatever—finished sweeping, he turned around and proclaimed, "Done," but the second his eyes settled on Clarke, they got real wide. "Whoa," he said in amazement, "you're the girl on the posters."

"Don't drool, Sterling," Niylah told him. "It's unbecoming."

Clarke laughed a little, wished Niylah a quiet good luck, and headed backstage.

Anya had to inspect her black eye, of course, before she gave her clearance to perform. But luckily, it'd begun to fade, to the point where it was only faintly visible and didn't hurt so much anymore. "You're good to go," Anya declared. "But still put some makeup on it."

"Got it." Clarke sat down in the makeup chair while her boss headed back out to the club, and she surveyed the other girls. There was no Harper tonight, as she seemed to have been elevated to strictly a weekend performer. So that meant it was her and Roma and Vivian.

"Hey, Clarke," Vivian chirped, bouncing towards her. "Guess what? I'm headlining. With sparklers." She excitedly held up two unlit fireworks, beaming from ear to ear.

"Oh, that's . . . electric." She wasn't sure how else to respond, because she really hoped the girl didn't set herself on fire.

"Crowd's gonna be happy to see you again," Roma said from over on the couch, where she lay rubbing her forehead as if she had a headache. "They booed me when I opened in your place the other night."

Clarke cringed apologetically. "Roma, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Roma said. "You're the hot new thing. Embrace it."

 _The hot new thing,_ she thought, still getting used to that idea. She'd never actually _been_ the hot new thing before, what with having lived in Arkadia and grown up there all her life. She'd always been the smart girl, the girl involved in everything, the pretty girl, she supposed, and hopefully the nice girl. But she never used to be as _desired_ as she was now. It was her job to make all those men out there desire her more and more with every performance, and that was exactly what she intended to do.

...

Bellamy tapped his foot impatiently as the director, Shumway, pulled Gina aside and started talking to her about her performance. He wasn't lecturing her, exactly, but he did seem to be getting frustrated that she wasn't giving him what he needed out of the scene. "You have to project more with your face," he was telling her. "You're in love with this guy, but you're trying to convince yourself you're not. The audience needs to understand that without you saying it."

"Right." Gina nodded affirmatively. "More projection."

"But don't overact. Just be natural." Shumway waved her away and said, "Two-minute break."

Gina came back over to Bellamy and said, "He does realize act natural's an oxymoron, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, really." He chuckled, flipping ahead a few pages in the script, eager to move on from the scene they'd currently been rehearsing for three hours now. "I think you're projecting fine," he told her. Gina was a good actress. She didn't have the typical sex bomb look, but she didn't need to. She had talent.

"No, it's always been a struggle of mine, honestly," she said. "I can memorize the lines until the cows come home, and then I can memorize the cows. But really, _truly_ emoting . . . that's the challenge."

"And also the reward," he added. Acting, writing, storytelling in general . . . it all came down to characters. Which was why he'd been so passionate about playing this part. He genuinely liked the character. The guy had substance.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," she said, taking a swig from her water bottle.

He pulled out his phone, just to check the time, and he couldn't help but think that . . . Clarke was maybe at the club right now. On their run this morning, she'd mentioned something about seeing if Anya would let her perform tonight. It wouldn't be a packed house on a weeknight, but if word got around that Clarke was going to dance, it'd be more crowded than usual. He'd had to take off work to come rehearse tonight, otherwise he would have been there.

"Why do you keep checking the time?" Gina asked him. "We've got at least another hour of this ahead of ourselves."

An hour? If Clarke was performing tonight, she'd probably be done by then. "It's just, my friend . . ." he started in, but what was he supposed to say after that? _My friend's a stripper and somehow I've taken it upon myself to try to be there to look out for her?_ That just sounded weird. "My friend's fine," he said as Shumway strolled back in. It was time to rehearse some more.

...

Clarke's performance went well. She freestyled most of it, but she was getting good at freestyling. Plus, she did a few corkscrew turns, which had become her favorite move ever since she'd learned how to do them properly for the Halloween routine. She didn't feel like she could do them quite as gracefully as Harper yet, but she was definitely getting there.

When it was time to leave, she wasn't sure which exit was the best choice. Because if she headed out the front, there were potentially some people who could stop her and try to get her number. That'd already happened a few times before. Plus, she'd spotted Roan there tonight, and she _really_ didn't want to deal with him. Her only other option, though, was to go out the back entrance, and the last time she'd done that, Bellamy had literally shielded her from some drug dealers he didn't want laying an eye on her.

 _Front door it is,_ she decided, venturing out. Roan didn't seem to be around anymore, so that was a relief.

She walked quickly, managing to get out before anyone could stop her. She did say thanks to a few people who complimented how she'd danced tonight, but that was it. And that was easy. Unfortunately, when she got outside, she saw a familiar masculine shape standing next to her car. Definitely not Finn, definitely not Bellamy.

"Well, hello there, pretty girl," Roan greeted with a mischievous grin.

Her stomach clenched, and she _really_ wished Bellamy was there. "Roan. Hi," she said.

He stepped aside a bit as she came towards her car. "You looked so good up there tonight," he said. "Way better than the sparkler girl."

"Um . . . thanks." For some reason, thanking him didn't feel as easy as thanking the other guys who had complimented her was.

"Stay a while," he said, pushing the driver's side door shut the second she opened it. "Bellamy's not here to get jealous."

"He doesn't get jealous," she denied. That would imply . . .

"Could've fooled me," Roan mumbled. "Then again, I can't say I blame him. You and I do seem to have a . . . connection."

 _Connection?_ What on earth was making him think that? They'd only had a handful of conversations _ever,_ and usually, he did most of the talking. "I have a boyfriend," she informed him, hopeful that that would be enough to dissuade him.

"Yeah, I've met him."

"No, not Bellamy." She really wasn't sure Finn could hold his own against this guy, though, so she didn't go any more into detail. "There's no connection, Roan," she told him. "So please . . ." She tried to open her door again, but he kneed it shut.

"I'm not asking for anything, Clarke," he said. "All I would like is the _pleasure_. . . of your company."

Just the way he said that, though, the emphasis he put on that word . . . it made her skin crawl, especially since he'd probably used the same line on Ontari. "I have to leave," she said, knowing Bellamy would tell her to just cut this conversation as short as possible if he were here. The best way to avoid Roan was just to not talk to him.

When she opened her car door this time, he let her, and she locked the door and drove off as quickly as she could.

When she got home, she felt tired, and she still felt all unsettled about Roan. She just wanted him to leave her alone. Was that too much to ask?

On her way up the stairs, she encountered the same drunken man she'd walked past on her first day in this apartment complex. Once again, he was slumped over, passed out. "Hey, um . . . sir?" she said, gently nudging his shoulder. "Mister? Are you okay?"

He moved around a little bit, but that was the only response she got out of him.

"Do you need some help?" she offered. He was too big to carry, but maybe she could call someone for him or . . .

Much to her relief, she didn't have to deal with this man alone for long. Bellamy came upstairs not long after her, stopping when he saw what she was dealing with. "Bellamy," she said. "This guy, he's just . . ."

Bellamy knew what to do. "That's Dale," he said. "Dale, come on, get up." He hoisted him to his feet and said, "You're almost home. Come on, man."

"Is it lunchtime?" Dale asked, still in his stupor.

"No, it's bedtime. You think you can get home?"

"Yeah." Struggling to put one foot in front of the other, Dale stumbled up the steps and took a left.

"Other way, Dale," Bellamy told him.

Nodding dazedly, Dale took a turn and staggered to the right instead.

"God, that guy is drunk," Clarke said, feeling bad for him as she and Bellamy climbed one more flight of stairs.

"He's an addict," Bellamy said sadly. Once they'd reached their floor, he held the door open for her and asked, "So how'd it go tonight?"

"Good," she said, thinking of the cash she now had in her wallet. "You?"

"We rehearsed a lot." He yawned. "I'm wiped."

"Yeah, me, too." As fun as those corkscrew spins were to do, she'd kind of thrown her back out on the last one. So hopefully she could convince Finn to give her a massage before bed.

"Roan didn't give you any trouble tonight, did he?" Bellamy said, stopping at her door.

He had, but if she told Bellamy that, he'd get all worried. "Roan wasn't there," she lied, just to put his mind at ease.

"Oh, good." He pulled his phone out of his pocket when it vibrated and said, "Well, I'll still be there some nights, so . . ."

"Yeah, this guy they had working for you tonight, he's driving Niylah crazy and . . ." She trailed off as his eyes drifted down to the screen of his phone, and his face took on an unreadable expression. "What?" she asked.

"I just got a text from Murphy," he said. But she didn't see why that would be so alarming until he revealed, "Ontari overdosed."

Clarke's chest tightened, and her bottom lip quivered as the word rolled around her mind. Overdosed. _Overdosed?_ Did that mean . . .

Ontari was _dead_?


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18_

Anya called everyone into work the next morning to talk about . . . the news. Everyone who could make it showed up, and everyone was . . . somber. Even though no one there had really _liked_ Ontari, there just seemed to be this understanding that she'd gotten caught up in something bigger than herself, something darker. So it was tragic.

"Her funeral's scheduled for the day after tomorrow," Anya informed them. "We'll be closing down the club for a few days so that anyone who wants to attend can go. It's in her hometown, South Norwalk."

 _Hometown,_ Clarke thought sadly. Ontari had a hometown, maybe a small town like Arkadia.

"I've been in touch with her family," Anya said hoarsely. "They said they don't expect a big crowd, so . . . it'd be nice if some of us were able to go."

Clarke looked around at all her fellow dancers, the bartenders, Luna, Anya. Some of them were already crying, and some of them looked like they were about to. Beside her, Harper dabbed at her eyes, even though she hadn't been a big Ontari fan.

"Not to sound totally selfish," Niylah piped up, raising her hand as if she were in class, "but what about those of us who _need_ to work these next few days?"

"I'll make sure you get paid if you were scheduled," Anya promised. "I just don't want anyone to have to worry about taking off work or finding a replacement. I just . . ." Gulping, she nodded affirmatively. "I think it's the right thing to do."

 _It is,_ Clarke thought. That Polis strip club probably wouldn't do anything for her, not if it was as shady as Bellamy and Harper had made it sound.

"I don't really know what else to say, so . . ." Anya flapped her arms against her sides and finished with, "Thank you all for coming in this morning." She turned and hustled towards her office, and Clarke wondered if she was trying to get out of there before she started crying. Anya was pretty tough, _very_ in control, and she probably didn't want to show emotion or weakness.

"I gotta go to class now," Harper mumbled, sliding down off the bar stool. "But we're still hanging out later?"

Clarke nodded. Girls night at Harper's place, which apparently was in a nicer part of town than her own.

Once Harper had left, Clarke sidled up to Bellamy, hands in her pockets, as everyone else started to filter out. "Anya seems really sad," she noted.

"Yeah. She tried really hard to keep Ontari out of trouble," he said, shaking his head. "Didn't work."

 _Definitely not,_ Clarke thought.

"I think she kinda blames herself for letting her go down the wrong path," Bellamy went on. He ran his hand quickly through her hair, adding, "But I don't want you blaming _your_ self, okay? This isn't your fault. Ontari's life was screwed up long before you got here."

Even though she knew that, there was still this nagging voice in the back of her head reminding her that she'd taken Ontari's place at this club. She knew it wasn't _just_ that that had made her overdose, but still . . . it'd surely contributed. "Are you gonna go to the funeral?" she asked him.

"Maybe," he replied.

Sighing heavily, she said, "I know I'm probably the last person on earth she'd want there, but I think I should go, too. The only problem is . . . South Norwalk? I have no idea how to get there."

"Yeah, it's in Connecticut, over an hour drive," he informed her. "You can ride with me."

She nodded, glad that she didn't have to worry about getting there, at least. Even with GPS, her sense of direction was . . . directionless.

"What'd she overdose on?" she asked quietly as they shuffled towards the door.

"I don't know. Coke, heroin . . . hard to say."

She wasn't even sure if she should ask, but no one else had, so . . . she went ahead and did it. "Do you think it was an accident or . . ." She trailed off, reluctant to say the word.

"Suicide?" he filled in. "That's hard to say, too. Someone with her life, her history . . ." He shook his head regretfully. "Roan used her up, convinced her she was only worth something if she gave him sex. She lost herself in this city a long time ago. I don't know whether she was trying to kill herself or not. But she did."

She slipped past him as he held the door open for her, deciding to ask another question she wasn't sure she had the right to. "I know your mom's doing okay right now, but . . . do you ever worry about this happening to her?"

He fell into step beside her as they walked down the sidewalk towards their cars. "Every day."

...

Finn needed the Cadillac for work on the day of Ontari's funeral, so that left Bellamy's car for the drive to Connecticut. It had trouble starting up, which wasn't a good sign, but Bellamy just flippantly said, "Cold weather," and shrugged it off.

She didn't tell Finn where she was going that day, nor did she tell him why it'd been important for her to go buy a modest black dress. The plan was to be home before he got home, which wouldn't be too hard considering how late he always seemed to be working these days.

So she looked out the window while Bellamy drove. He offered to let her choose the music, but when she settled on a pop radio station, he told her he couldn't listen to that. But she couldn't listen to all those rap songs, so she finally found a radio station that was playing some soft rock music instead. It drifted throughout the car, lulling her into daydreams as she watched the world fly past outside.

It was weird, because . . . New York was such a _city_. But once they were out of it, it wasn't like every single area they drove past was an urban one. There were other cities, sure, but they were smaller. There was still some open highway, roads lined with trees instead of skyscrapers. When she rolled down the window and let the breeze filter in, the air smelled fresh for change.

Bellamy got them to South Norwalk without problem, which turned out to be a specific neighborhood of regular Norwalk. Some people, people like Murphy and Niylah who had lived in New York their entire lives, would still consider it to be a small town. But it was much bigger than Arkadia, and it seemed to have some tourist attractions. It was by a river, so there were cruises to go on and apparently oyster festivals. There were some restaurants to eat at, and they even drove by a fairly large aquarium. It wouldn't be a bad place to spend a day if Finn ever took a day off.

Today wasn't about any of those things, and the thought lingered in Clarke's head as they drove. She wasn't here for cruises or an aquarium; she was here for a funeral.

Clarke was a little surprised to find that the funeral wasn't being held in a church. It was directly at the cemetery, and as Anya had reported it would be . . . there was only a small crowd there. Harper had wanted to attend, but she had an exam that she couldn't miss. There were a couple other girls from the club there, Roma among them, and Anya and Luna, of course. But other than that, it was mostly just Ontari's family. She had a mother in a wheelchair and a little sister who looked just like her. She had a cousin who looked to be about her age and greeted them politely when they showed up. "Thanks for coming," she said without asking how they'd known Ontari. She just looked relieved that other people had shown.

As the service started, a long black car pulled up, and out stepped Roan and Echo, of all people. Echo had on a dress that was way too revealing for a funeral and dark black sunglasses. Roan was wearing a suit. They came to stand behind Clarke and Bellamy, and neither one of them did anything to disrupt the service. But Clarke still felt comforted when she felt Bellamy's hand come to rest on the small of her back.

Though she didn't cry, the funeral was still _sad_. The saddest part was watching Ontari's mother sob her eyes out as she set a rose down on top of her casket. Ontari's little sister couldn't even look as the casket was lowered into the ground. Seeing them humanized Ontari even further in Clarke's mind. She hadn't just been a stripper; she'd been a part of a family. They probably hadn't been close, because if they had been, then surely they would have tried to do something to help her. But still . . . she was somebody's daughter, somebody's sister. Or . . . at least she had been.

After the service, everyone kind of mulled about, talking. Some people kept it casual, chatting about the weather and all those dark clouds accumulating in the sky. Others talked about Ontari. Clarke didn't really have much to say, so she mostly just listened and let Bellamy do the talking since he'd known her longer. He ended up in a pretty drawn-out conversation with her cousin, who seemed to be smiling constantly as a way of masking her sadness.

"When Ontari was little, we used to play school," she told him. "She always wanted to be a teacher. She loved science."

"Hmm," Bellamy said. "I didn't know that."

Ontari and science . . . Clarke never would have even suspected that. And she _definitely_ hadn't ended up teaching anything. Except corkscrew spins and back hooks and . . . every other pole-dancing move. She'd probably been the one to teach Harper and some of the girls who had been there for a while.

Leaving Bellamy to continue on the conversation, Clarke wandered back over to the open grave, peering down at the casket. It was hard to believe that the girl who'd commanded the attention of an entire room of men not all that long ago was now inside that thing, never to come out again. Bending down, she picked up a small handful of dirt and sprinkled it down onto the coffin. _I'm sorry,_ she thought, wishing there was something she could have done to prevent this.

"Sad, isn't it?"

She stiffened at the sound of Roan's voice and didn't even look at him when he came to stand beside her. "It's a tragedy," she said, wondering if he felt even half as bad as she did.

"Yes," he agreed. "She used to have such a bright light in her, and then she just . . . burnt out."

 _Because of you,_ Clarke thought angrily. Was he even going to accept any of the responsibility for this, shoulder any of the blame?

"You know, Clarke, I've gotta hand it to you," he said, turning to face her. "You even manage to look beautiful in a funeral dress."

Shocked and appalled, she grunted in disbelief and whirled towards him. "Are you serious right now? Are you seriously doing this?"

"Doing what?" he asked innocently.

"We're at your girlfriend's funeral-"

"She wasn't my girlfriend," he cut in.

"And you're _flirting_ with me?" That was so wrong of him, it made her want to throw up. "Is that why you came? Do you even care about showing your respect to someone whose life you helped _ruin_?"

"I gave her everything she ever could've wanted," he argued.

"Including an abortion, right?"

He winced, only momentarily, but she noticed.

"Don't you think that pushed her over the edge?" she pressed on, repulsed by the fact that that seemed to be the only sign of remorse she'd get out of him.

"Ontari was . . . troubled," he stated simply. "It's not my fault she killed herself."

She wanted to slap him across his face, but that was probably a bad idea. Besides, this wasn't the place for it. "You're disgusting," she ground out, glaring at him. She stomped off, back towards Bellamy. "Can we go?" she asked him.

"Yeah." He glanced over his shoulder at Roan, then put his hand on her shoulders. He nodded at Ontari's cousin, and off they went.

"That's one _spunky_ little country girl you got there," Roan called after them.

Clarke rolled her eyes, relieved when Bellamy's entire arm wrapped around her shoulders. They probably totally looked more couple-y than they actually were, but in that moment, she didn't care. And she didn't even care if Anya saw them and _thought_ they were a couple. Because knowing that Roan had come there just to flirt with her . . . it made her skin crawl. But Bellamy's protective touch made her feel safer.

...

The weather got bad fast, but Bellamy seemed to think it would just be a passing storm. He suggested they stop somewhere and get something to eat while they waited for it to move on through, but they ended up waiting a while at a seafood restaurant where nothing on the menu sounded even remotely appealing to Clarke. He convinced her to eat fish, but it was a real struggle for her, and when she couldn't finish it, she just gave the rest to him. Then she sat there and people watched while he finished what was left on her plate.

"This is kind of a cool town," she said. It was just big enough that there were plenty of tourists and people just passing through, but no so big that you were just another face in the crowd. "I wonder why Ontari ever left."

Bellamy wiped his mouth off with his napkin and pushed the empty plate aside. "Why'd you leave?" he asked her.

She tensed, and almost as if it were a dramatic, foreboding sound effect in a movie, thunder rumbled through the air.

Bellamy stared at her for several long seconds, but he must have sensed that he wasn't going to get an answer, because he made a move to stand up and asked, "You ready to go?"

She nodded, slipping out of the booth. It was way later than she'd intended to be gone. At this rate, Finn might even get home before she did.

The weather still wasn't great when they got in the car and drove, and Bellamy took a few wrong turns that made their progress even slower. By the time they were out on the highway, the sun had completely set, and the rain was steady, didn't seem to be letting up in the slightest.

"I don't think we're gonna beat the storm," Clarke said. "In fact, I think we're kind of caught in the middle of it."

"Lucky for you, I'm a good driver," he boasted. But a few seconds after he said that, something blew underneath the hood, and the car jerked forward and started to chug along. "Shit," he swore, applying the brakes. He pulled off onto the side of the road and shut the whole thing off.

"Good driver, huh?" she taunted.

"Stay in here," he told her, getting out. She watched as he went around to the front of his car and opened up the hood, taking a look underneath. Smoke billowed out to greet him. She couldn't tell what he was doing, but it didn't look like he was doing much. He was just fiddling around with everything underneath, pulling on things here, tugging on things there.

Undeterred by the rain, Clarke got out, too, and went to join him at the front of the vehicle. "What's wrong with it?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted with a helpless shrug. "I'm not good with cars."

"Well, maybe I can fix it," she proposed, though she wasn't even sure what might be wrong.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked, " _You're_ good with cars?"

"No, but my dad was. Maybe I've got some genetic know-how." Bending forward, she did a little jiggling and tugging of her own, but the only thing that happened as a result was a loud popping sound that caused something to spark and her to jump back. "Maybe not," she said sheepishly. "Do you have, like, Triple A or anything?"

"No, I'll just try to call Miller." He took his phone out of his pocket, about to dial his friend's number when he noted, "Except my phone's dead."

"I can call Finn." She went back around to the passenger's side, opened the door, and grabbed her purse. She took her phone out, happy to see that it was still at over fifty percent. She pressed the number for his speed dial and waited for him to pick up.

One ring. Two rings. Three. After the fourth, it kicked onto his voicemail.

"He's not answering," she said. "Maybe Harper?" She called her friend, feeling a same sense of hopelessness as the ringing continued with her. "She's not answering, either." She put her phone away, wishing she knew more people, wishing there were more people she could call. "We're stranded. On the side of the road. In a rainstorm." She looked up at the dark sky when thunder boomed again. The wind was picking up, and it was pretty cold. It definitely wasn't a good night to be stranded.

"Look, there's a hotel up ahead," Bellamy spotted, pointing to a sign up ahead that advertised a hotel at the next exit. "Can't be more than half a mile."

"You just wanna run?" She had heels on. And a dress.

"Yeah, we can beat our best time," he said, already holding out his hand. "Come on."

She had no idea where they were or if that hotel was as close as he seemed to think it was, and running on the side of a highway—even a relatively deserted one like this—seemed like a really stupid idea. But she wasn't about to stay there and just sit in the car while he went on without her, so she placed her hand in his, and together, they took off into the night.

The good news was that there was indeed a hotel, as advertised. The bad news was that it was called Big Dick's Roadside Retreat, and it looked like a real hole in the wall. But it was cheap, dry, and a place to stay. So that was all that mattered. Bellamy paid for a room, got the key, and they proceeded to run around outside trying to find it, because some of the room numbers had been taken off the doors. Apparently Big Dick had never bothered to replace them.

Once they finally found their room, Clarke was so relieved. She was soaked and freezing and exhausted. If she'd known they were going to get their workout in today, she would have brought shoes to run in. "Half a mile away," she said, teeth chattering as she threw herself into the room. "Yeah, right."

Bellamy shut the door and immediately tried the light switch. Nothing happened. "Lights don't work," he mumbled. "Great."

Right now, she didn't care about lights, though. All that mattered was that she was inside, out of that rain. Sure, her dress clung to her like a wet swimsuit, and her hair was dripping water, but at least she could get dry now.

"You're shivering," he noted quietly, putting his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them to try to warm her up.

"Cold," she said. Obviously.

Slowly, he withdrew his hands and suggested, "Why don't you go check out the shower, get warmed up?"

That honestly sounded perfect. Hopefully that was working, unlike the lights. "What about you?" she asked.

"I'll be alright."

She nodded as her breath shuddered in and out of her lungs, and with her arms wrapped around herself, she slinked into the bathroom. When she flipped that light switch, a yellowish overhead light flickered, struggling to turn on. It finally did, though, so . . . that was something.

She undressed eagerly, needing to be out of those cold clothes, and tried not to think about how gross that shower probably was as she stepped into it. When the water first came out, it was cold as fuck, but gradually, it warmed up. She stood underneath it, letting the warmth spread through her, through every limb and muscle. She dug her hands through her hair, wishing she had some shampoo with her, but that just would have been indulgent. Bellamy still had to shower, too, and she didn't want to use up all the hot water.

Ending her shower when she felt warm enough, she got out and realized . . . she had no clothes to change back into. Her black dress and undergarments lay on the floor, little more than a pool of water at this point, and there was no way she could get back into them. Maybe if there was a blow-dryer in here somewhere . . . but there didn't seem to be.

At least there were two white towels. She grabbed one, wrapped it around herself, and tucked it in beneath her right arm. She wasn't exactly sure what the plan was here. Clearly there wasn't one. She and Bellamy would just have to hang out in towels. Until their clothes dried.

Hesitantly, nervously, she stepped out of the bathroom, but the room was empty. "Bellamy?" she called, not even sure why she'd bothered. It wasn't like he was hiding under the bed or something.

The bed. The _one_ bed. And it wasn't even a queen-sized.

The door opened, and Bellamy came back in from outside, his damp hair covering his face like a wet dog. He shook it backward and swore, "Shit, it's a downpour out there. Even if you had gotten hold of someone, they couldn't drive out in this." He went a bit wordless for a moment when he finally noticed that she was standing there in just a towel, and she couldn't remember ever seeing Bellamy Blake look . . . tongue-tied.

Clearing his throat, he held up a large blue t-shirt that said _Big Dick's_ on the front. "I got you a shirt," he said. "They were selling it at the front desk."

Smiling a bit, she stepped forward and took it from him. "Thanks." Anyone who saw her in that t-shirt would totally get the wrong idea, so this would definitely just be one to wear at home.

"These are for me," he said, holding up a pair of grey sweatpants that had the Big Dick's logo on one of the legs.

 _Well, at least we have clothes now,_ she thought. Although truth be told, Bellamy would have looked _damn_ good in that towel.

"Do you want the shower?" she asked him.

"Sure." He eased past her and started to unbutton his suit on the way to the bathroom. She tried not to look, but it was hard not to catch sight of his back muscles as he peeled his shirt off before shutting the door.

 _Get it together,_ she told herself. Yeah, Bellamy was a hot guy, but . . . so was Finn.

 _Finn._ She knew she'd have to try calling him again, and as she got changed into her new and not so fashionable t-shirt, she thought about what she would say to him. He hadn't even known she was going out of town today. Not that she had to check in with him 24/7 or anything. She just didn't want him to worry.

The shirt was long enough to go down to mid-thigh on her, but still, the knowledge that she literally had nothing on underneath was a little . . . nerve-racking. She wasn't sure why. After all, she'd gotten up on stage and showed more skin than this before.

After dragging her fingers through her hair and getting a kick out of how Bellamy was singing—or rather attempting to sing—in the shower, she sat down on the bed with her purse and took out her phone. She called Finn again, and this time, he answered right after the first ring.

"Hey, babe, I just got home," he said. "Where are you?"

"Um . . . I don't know, actually," she admitted. Some small town on the way back to the big city. She wasn't sure of the name. "I went to a funeral in Connecticut today for this girl who used to work at the club, and . . . I kinda got stranded on the way back."

"What do you mean?" He sounded concerned. "Do you need me to come get you?"

"No, it's storming way too hard for that." She didn't need Finn to be out on the road in bad weather, not when she was perfectly safe here at . . . here at Big Dick's. "I'm in a hotel."

"Alone?"

"No." She wanted to tell him the truth, but . . . what if he got upset? Or jealous? So she lied instead, cringing as the words left her mouth. "I'm with Harper. Don't worry about me, okay? We're probably just gonna stay here tonight."

He sighed reluctantly. "Okay. Well, as long as you're safe. Let me know if you need me to come get you tomorrow, alright?"

Unless Bellamy's car miraculously began working again, she knew she might. But if he came to get her and saw that she was with Bellamy instead of Harper . . . great, she'd have some explaining to do. "Alright," she said, eager to end the call before Bellamy came out of the bathroom. "Bye, I love you."

"Love you, too, Princess." He made a kissing sound through the phone, and she smiled sadly.

 _I shouldn't have done that,_ she thought, putting her phone back in her purse. She took her whole purse over to the table and set it down, sighing heavily, feeling guilty. She and Finn didn't lie to each other. They had an honest relationship. That was why they'd lasted so long.

When Bellamy came out of the bathroom, he looked all refreshed. And shirtless. The sweatpants fit him well, though. Really well.

"Feel better?" she asked.

"Yeah, that did the trick." He kept the bathroom door open a ways, letting the light from in there slip out into the rest of the room. Like a nightlight. "You look cute," he told her.

She might have blushed. Just a little bit.

"So what else works or doesn't work in here?" he asked. "The TV?"

"Oh, I don't know, I didn't check."

He walked around her and pushed the power button a few times, but nothing happened. "Five star hotel here," he muttered sarcastically.

"Yeah, seriously." Just the thought of what could even be on that bed was disgusting, but . . . she _refused_ to think about all the news reports with the reporters who shined the special lights on the hotel beds. Nope. Wasn't going to think about those.

"So why'd you lie to Finn?" he asked her suddenly.

Her eyebrows arched, as she was taken aback by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Just now. I heard you tell him you were with Harper," he said. "Why didn't you tell him you're with me?"

 _Yeah, why didn't you, Clarke?_ she wondered herself. "Because I—I just thought . . . I thought he'd feel better if I was sharing a hotel room with another girl," she stuttered in response. "Not that there's . . . not that anything's gonna . . . you know what I mean."

"No, I really _don't_ know why you lied to him," he retorted.

"I didn't lie," she argued.

"Then what exactly did you do?"

"I just . . ." She didn't have another word for it.

"You didn't tell him the truth," he pointed out.

"He's already worried about me tonight. I didn't want him to worry anymore." Was it really _so_ horrible to just want to put his mind at ease so he could get some rest tonight? Really, she was just looking out for him. "I'll tell him the truth when I get home. It's not that big of a deal."

"Okay," Bellamy said, flapping his arms against his sides. "I'm just saying . . ."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," she snapped, feeling a bit defensive now that he'd brought this up. Lying was such a _strong_ word, one she was unfortunately far too familiar with. And she didn't like it being attached to her relationship with Finn. "I think I just wanna go to bed," she decided. It wasn't particularly late, but she was tired. Sort of.

They both glanced at the one bed, and she was going to suggest they put a wall of pillows up in between them. But there were only two pillows even _on_ the bed, so . . . that wasn't possible.

"Go ahead," he urged. "I'll sleep on the floor." He lay down beside the bed, flat on his back, and somehow, Clarke sensed he'd slept on worse. "You wanna toss me a pillow or something?" he asked.

She got up onto the bed and gave him one of the pillows, then pulled back the covers. Oh, yeah, these sheets pretty much felt like sandpaper, and the pillow was like one of those pillow's in doctor's office chairs. But it was better than nothing. Hell, it was better than the sleeping bag she and Finn had shared when they'd first moved here.

"Do you need a blanket?" she offered.

"No, I'm good." He folded his hands atop his stomach, and even though she couldn't see him very well in the dark room, her eyes had adjusted well enough to see that his were now closed.

Lying down on her back, she stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds before quietly saying his name. "Bellamy?"

"Hmm?" came his response.

"Do you snore?"

He chuckled lightly. "Sometimes. Just reach down and whack me on the head if I'm makin' too much noise, alright?"

"Alright." She smiled a bit, no longer upset with him for bringing up her . . . her lie. Because he was right, and that was what she'd told Finn. A big, guilt-inducing lie, one that was probably going to threaten to keep her up tonight.

"Goodnight, Clarke," he said softly.

"Goodnight," she returned, wondering how long it would take her to fall asleep. She never did well the first night in an unfamiliar bed.

The bed wasn't comfortable, so naturally, Clarke struggled to get comfortable in it. More so than that, she struggled to shut her mind off for the night. All she could think about was what she'd said to Finn, and _why_ she'd said it. She could go on and on about how she just didn't want him to worry about her, but really . . . she didn't want him to be _mad_ at her. She'd definitely been spending a lot of time with Bellamy lately, and sharing a hotel room, even though they weren't sharing a bed . . . it was sort of unexpectedly intimate, in a weird way, and she felt bad about it. Maybe she should have just driven herself to the funeral. Or maybe she should have insisted that they stay in the car and try calling people to come get them. Maybe she shouldn't have been so quick to just take off hand in hand with Bellamy and . . . end up here.

Of course, she couldn't think about lying without thinking about her parents. And thinking about them never failed to keep her up at night. As she lay there, all their fights and arguments came back to her, their furious shouts echoing off the walls of her head.

" _You lied to me! You lied! How could you do this to me?_ "

" _I thought it was for the best . . ._ "

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to keep the tears inside where they belonged, and shook her head as she reminded herself that she and Finn were nothing like her parents. One little lie like this . . . she could correct it, and he could forgive her. But she couldn't make a habit out of it, because maybe her father had started out with one little lie, too, and then it had just snowballed . . .

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, of unbearable restlessness, she sat up in the bed, checking the big red letters of the digital clock on the night stand. It was barely past midnight. On the floor, Bellamy lay sleeping, snoring lightly but not loud enough to be annoying.

"Bellamy?" she said quietly.

He didn't hear her.

"Bellamy?" she tried again, nudging him with her foot. He stirred a little but didn't wake up, so she finally just reached down and whacked him on the head like he'd told her, too. "Bellamy."

"Sorry," he said, lifting his head up. "I'll be quieter." He started to turn over onto his side.

"No, it's not . . ." She let out a heavy exhale, feeling like everything inside her was just about to bubble up over the surface. If she didn't say something, she felt like she'd go crazy. "I wanna talk to you," she said, her stomach knotting up with nervousness.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he gave her a curious look. "Right now?"

She nodded.

He still seemed confused, but he sat up all the way, rubbing his eyes. "Okay, have at it."

Where the hell did she even start, though? She felt like there was so much to say. "It's hard for me," she confessed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She looked down at her lap sullenly, wishing she could just blurt it out. "I don't . . . I haven't told anyone since I've moved here. Not even Harper."

Slowly, he stood up and sat down beside her. "Whoa. Am I really about to get the Clarke Griffin backstory at long last?"

"I guess." She hadn't planned on telling him, not now, not ever, but . . . why not? It wasn't like _Bellamy_ would be as cruel and judgmental as those people back home had been. "It's not even . . . I mean, it doesn't even compare to yours. The things that your family's been through . . ." She shook her head. "My family's problems probably seem small in comparison."

He moved in a bit closer and urged, "You can tell me."

She gazed at him, barley able to make out his features in the dark room. She sensed his sincerity, though, and she felt like . . . yeah. Yeah, she _could_ tell him. The nerves began to dissipate as she started in. "Well, you already know we were, like, the all-American family. I had everything I ever could have wanted, and . . . I don't know, I probably was spoiled."

He snorted. "Lucky."

"Yeah." She had been. For most of her life. "My mom runs her own private practice. She's, like, the town doctor. So everybody knows us. Our family was like a fixture of Arkadia. Now we're just . . . a laughing stock." She wondered if people still talked about them, talked about everything that had happened. Or had they moved on to some other small-town scandal now? "My dad used to run this financial planning business," she went on. "Not anymore. And my parents were supposed to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary this year. But . . . not anymore."

"What happened?" Bellamy asked.

"My dad had a lot of clients," she said, and then, after gulping, she added, "And then he decided to have an affair with one of them."

"Oh." He turned his body towards her slightly. "Clarke, I'm sorry."

"No, it gets better," she promised. That would have been bad enough on its own, but for her family, it just had to be even _worse_. "He decided to have an affair with another man."

Bellamy didn't say anything, but . . . his silence said it all. Plot twist.

"A man named Thelonious Jaha, the former town mayor," she elaborated. "They got caught by some random neighbor, and that basically forced them to come out. About their affair and . . . everything else." She lowered her head, and a few tears dripped down her cheeks. "I found out on Christmas Eve. My parents sat me down in the living room, and I thought they were gonna tell me we were going somewhere warm for Christmas vacation. But instead, they told me there was something we needed to talk about. And then they just . . ." She inhaled shakily, resenting them so much for the way they'd handled that whole conversation. They'd been so business-like and matter-of-fact, and when she'd started crying and screaming at them, they'd actually had the audacity to tell her to calm down.

"Did you have any idea?" Bellamy questioned.

"No. He hid it all really well. But looking back, there were signs. And I think I just ignored them," she admitted. She'd never paid much attention to it at the time, but finding out her dad was gay had made her think harder about the way he interacted with male clients versus female ones, the way he never seemed to see a beautiful actress or singer and comment on her appearance. He'd never gotten _Playboy_ magazines or _Sports Illustrated_ swimsuit calendars like other people's dads. All those things were just small details, really, but they added up.

"So what happened after he told you?" Bellamy asked.

"Well, he didn't tell anyone else, but he didn't need to. Eventually, everyone found out, because you know how it goes in a small town. People _always_ find out," she lamented. "And then everyone who was a client or a friend just _shunned_ him, basically. His business went under, and he resorted to all these drastic measures to try to keep it going. I mean, he did things he shouldn't have done, took money from people when he shouldn't have taken it. He almost went to jail. And we lost everything. All our money, our savings, my college fund . . . we almost lost our house, too, but luckily my mom was able to save that for us." She blinked back tears, remembering how hard those months surrounding her graduation had been. None of their family members had even come to see her walk across that stage and get her diploma, because no one wanted to be associated with a white collar criminal. Especially not a gay one.

"But nothing could save Yale for me," she bemoaned. "Because that's where I was gonna go, you know. I was gonna go to Yale and become a doctor just like my mom. Not that that's ever been my dream or anything, but . . . it was a plan, and it was a solid plan. Because I didn't have scholarships, but we always thought we'd be able to afford it. But then all of a sudden we couldn't, and . . ." Her bottom lip trembled, and her fingers drummed on her lap as she remembered what it had been like to type out that email to the office of admissions at Yale and to 'regretfully inform' them that she would no longer be able to attend. "Every plan I had for my future just went out the window," she cried. "And people told me I could take out loans and just go to college in Kansas with everyone else, but . . . at that point, it was just so suffocating there, and I felt like I had to get away."

"So you came to New York," he said.

"Yeah. Finn and I started talking about it right before graduation. Because things got really bad." She sniffed, wiping away the tears, tears that just refused to stop falling. "People just wouldn't stop talking about it, wouldn't stop gossiping. They'd vandalize our house and our cars and even my locker. So many of them are so close-minded. I mean, people who I thought were my friends were whispering behind my back about the 'gay gene' and how my dad must've passed it down to me. People from our church were always coming up to me offering to pray for us, but I didn't _want_ their prayers; I just wanted them to leave me alone."

He nodded sympathetically, as if he'd dealt with similar things. "But they didn't."

"No, they just kept . . . sensationalizing it. 'Oh, poor Clarke. She has a gay dad. That must be where she gets it from.'" She rolled her eyes, still, to this day, infuriated by their complete and utter ignorance. "They were so insensitive. And that whole time, my mom and dad were just fighting with each other _constantly_. And of course they got a divorce, and of course my dad moved out and moved in with his boyfriend. And my mom got her new boyfriend—fiancé now, whatever." Thinking about that still made her want to gag. "She just moved on so fast and didn't even give me time to adjust. I think she wanted to prove to all her friends and neighbors that she didn't _make_ my dad gay. It wasn't _her_ fault. So she just hopped right into a new relationship and expected me to accept it."

"That's hard," he said. "My mom didn't really _date_ much; she just . . ." He trailed off. "But yeah, it's hard."

"God, I just got _so_ fed up with both of them, and with everyone else in that town. I couldn't stay there. So I don't care if it was selfish to just pack up and leave in the middle of the night without even telling them goodbye. I don't care if I broke their hearts, because they broke mine." Her bottom lip quivered stubbornly. She really _didn't_ care. She still loved her parents, but she'd meant it when she told Bellamy that she didn't like them anymore. They weren't a family the way they used to be, and they never would be again. Too much was broken, too much damaged. "So that's it," she said, feeling a little bit better now that she'd at least gotten all of that off her chest. "That's the backstory."

"I'm glad you told me," he said.

Truthfully, so was she. Because Finn knew all of this, and she could talk to him. And if Maya and Jasper and Monty wouldn't have been so busy with college, she could talk to any one of them, too. But other than them, her options were limited. And just telling someone new, being able to openly vent about it for the first time in a long time . . . it felt sort of freeing.

"So you and your mom . . ." He let his sentence fade.

"Strained," she summarized. "Severely."

"And you and your dad?"

"Oh, it's even worse." Irony, she supposed, since she'd always been a bit of a Daddy's girl growing up.

"Why?" he questioned.

"Because none of this would have happened if it weren't for him." As pissed as she was with her mom, she'd been a victim of this whole scandal, too. It'd turned her whole life around.

"Yeah, but . . . okay, don't take this the wrong way," Bellamy said gently, "but, if anyone would be able to understand or sympathize with him, wouldn't it be you?"

"No, but I'm not mad at him for being gay; I'm mad at him for lying," she clarified. "For keeping it a secret from me and my mom for all these years. I mean, I get being scared to tell the truth, but . . . I did it. I came out as bi when I was _fifteen_. I sat them down and told them, and it was the most _terrifying_ experience of my entire life. I had my first girlfriend right after my first boyfriend broke up with me, and people hounded me about it and judged me. But I didn't let that stop me. I was honest about who I am. Yet my own father . . . he lied to me my entire life."

"Yeah, but when you came out, you didn't have a wife and daughter to consider," he pointed out.

She shot to her feet, shrieking, "What, so you think it was _easier_ for me? To tell my _parents_?"

"No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying . . . it's probably different for everybody." Bellamy shrugged. "It was different for him."

Well, she couldn't very well argue with that, now could she? That much was for sure true. "I know," she said. "And I know he was banking on me being a lot more understanding than I really was, but . . . I can't help the way I feel. And I feel betrayed." Tears poured down her cheeks; she just couldn't stop them. "And I feel _guilty_ , because . . . because Jaha's son, Wells, was, like, totally understanding about everything. And my dad's even asked me before, 'Why can't you be more accepting about this like Wells has been?' But Wells' mom is gone, so there's no divorce or broken family for him. He just gets a new father figure in his life. But I feel like I _lost_ my father, and I'm angry at him, and I'm angry at my mom for not trying harder to make it work." Her chest heaved with sobs as she struggled to keep going. "I basically had a picture perfect life, and then this happened."

Standing up, Bellamy said, "Hey, come here," and then found her shaking hands in his steady ones. "Nobody's life is perfect," he pointed out.

"Mine was pretty close." She felt like such a fool for taking everything she'd had for granted, for not realizing back then just how fleeting it all could be. "Am I horrible person for being so mad at them for so long now?" she asked, wanting his honest opinion.

"No," he answered right away. "You have every right to feel the way you do. But . . . I don't think you'll be mad at them forever."

She really wasn't so sure about that, but . . . maybe there would come a day. In the future. She wasn't sure when. Maybe there would come a day when she could accept her mom's new husband as her stepfather and get past the fact that her father had lived a lie her entire life.

"Please don't tell anyone," she begged. Even though she'd opened up to him, she wasn't really looking to tell the whole city. "I don't want people to know."

"I won't tell," he assured her.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

She breathed a sigh of relief, not that she'd ever really doubted that she could trust him with all of this. It was _because_ she trusted him that she'd told him, and it was because she'd finally told him that she felt compelled to hug him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressed her face against his chest, and allowed herself to take comfort in the way his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. He stood there with her in that dark hotel room, holding her, calming her as the storm raged on outside.


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19_

Sunlight filtered in through the crack in the blinds, and though Clarke tried to ignore it, it was just enough to wake her up. Slowly, she stirred a bit, feeling tired still, reluctant to open her eyes. But the pillow beneath her head didn't feel like _her_ pillow, and the sheets surrounding her skin didn't feel like _her_ sheets. She remembered where she was, in a run-down motel in some town she didn't even know the name of, and that was enough to make her open her eyes.

She blinked sleepily as her eyes adjusted and she got her bearings. She was on her side, asleep in a t-shirt, covered by a thin, scratchy sheet. Turning over onto her back, she saw Bellamy asleep next to her. His bare back was facing, her, too, and he didn't appear to be anywhere close to waking up yet.

When had he gotten into the bed? She didn't really remember. He'd sat back down with her while she pulled herself together after dissolving into a fit of tears and frustration. But she didn't remember when he'd _lain_ down, or even when she did, for that matter. Falling asleep was a blur, just as falling asleep next to him was.

 _It's okay,_ she told herself. There was plenty of space in between them, and it wasn't like they'd _done_ anything last night. Besides, why should he have to sleep on the floor? Sharing a bed with him when there was only one bed to share was totally fine.

Slowly, she sat up, worried despite what she was telling herself. What if Finn didn't think it was fine? She didn't _have_ to tell him she and Bellamy had slept in the same bed, but inevitably, he was going to find out she'd shared a hotel room with him and not Harper last night. She had to tell him, because Bellamy was right last night when he'd pointed out that she'd lied to him. She didn't want to be like her father, keeping secrets of any kind, so she owed it to him to tell him the truth.

Getting out of bed, she took her phone out of her purse and texted him to see if he could come get them. They were still technically stranded here, after all, and if they wanted to get Bellamy's car working again . . . well, Finn was the guy to call.

Bellamy didn't say much when he got up and got ready. He shrugged when she told him Finn was on his way, but meanwhile, her stomach was churning. What was he going to think when he got to this hotel and saw her there with Bellamy instead of Harper? Was he going to be mad? Hurt? God, why hadn't she just told him the truth right away last night?

Finn got to the hotel twenty minutes later than he said they would, but when he pulled up out front, he got this confused look on his face, and it broke Clarke's heart. Lowering her head, ashamed of herself for lying, she climbed into the passenger's seat of the blue Cadillac, and Bellamy hopped into the back without a word.

The half mile drive down the highway to Bellamy's car went a hell of a lot faster when they weren't running, and Finn, to his credit, didn't make things awkward by putting Clarke on the spot and asking why she'd lied to him. He lifted up the hood of Bellamy's car, fiddled around for a few minutes, narrating what he was doing and what he thought the problem might be, and Bellamy stood there nodding, paying attention. Clarke didn't know what the hell Finn was talking about—consumer car care was actually a class she'd _skipped_ in high school—so she hung back by the Cadillac, just trying to stay out of the way. She got a Snap from Maya, who'd taken a picture of herself and Jasper lounging around in bed this morning, sleepy, happy smiles on both their faces. _What are you up to?_ the caption read.

She glanced up at Bellamy and Finn, both of whom were hunched over and working, and she thought about snapping a picture of the two of them. But then Maya would ask who the guy with Finn was, and . . . she just didn't feel like explaining it.

"All done," Finn declared proudly as he shut the hood.

"You think that's it?" Bellamy asked skeptically.

"Oh, yeah. I worked at an auto garage a couple summers in a row. I know that's it," Finn said confidently. "We'll follow you home, though, just in case something conks out."

"Alright, well . . . thanks, man." Bellamy held out his hand, and Finn shook it, and before he got back in the car, Bellamy met Clarke's eyes briefly. He didn't say goodbye, just got in, shut the door, and started it up. It roared to life just fine, in desperate need of a muffler, and he pulled out onto the highway.

"Let's go," Finn said, getting back into the driver's seat of the Cadillac. Clarke sulked around to the passenger's side, knowing that it was coming. The inevitable conversation. The apology she _definitely_ owed him.

They'd driven only about five minutes in silence, a fair distance behind Bellamy's car, when Finn finally brought it up. "Why'd you tell me you were with Harper last night?"

She looked down at her lap, wondering momentarily if it'd be completely horrible to add one _more_ little lie into the mix and claim that she hadn't _meant_ to say Harper, that she'd meant to say Bellamy instead. But that wouldn't make her feel better; if anything, it'd just make her feel worse. So she sucked it up and confessed, "I don't know," because she really _didn't_ know. There was no good reason or explanation for it.

"You didn't have to lie to me," Finn said. "I wouldn't have been mad."

"I know." The way he was acting more disappointed than mad made her feel even _more_ guilty about the whole thing. Because he had every right to be mad.

"So you went with Bellamy to your friend's funeral?" he asked for clarification.

"She wasn't my friend," she admitted. "But yeah."

Finn shrugged. "That's fine. He's your friend, too. And I trust you."

She blinked back tears, nodding. "I know you do. And I don't want you to think you have any reason _not_ to trust me. Obviously nothing happened. We were just . . . stranded for the night." It hadn't been the romantic sharing-a-bed cliché that happened in so many books and movies. No, if anything, last night had been a bit of an emotional roller coaster for her. She'd _unloaded_ her family's past on him, and he'd done the good guy thing and just listened.

"We have to be honest with each other," Finn said. "Like we always have been."

She nodded in agreement. "You're right. That's why I feel so bad and so sorry. And that's why I'm never gonna lie to you again."

"And I'm never gonna lie to you," he promised. "I mean, I know how it might look to some people, me and Raven clocking all those late nights, spending so much time together. But you trust me, so of course I'm gonna trust you."

 _Of course,_ she thought, nodding again. It was such a relief that he wasn't more upset about this. Finn may not have been the world's perfect boyfriend, but he'd always been a pretty _good_ one. And this, him being so forgiving, was really just proof of that.

He put his arm around her, and she leaned to her left, resting against him, head on his shoulder. He felt a lot more familiar and comfortable than that hotel bed had been.

...

"Remember, it's an _epic_ kiss," Shumway bellowed as he stepped down off the stage and returned to his director's seat. "Not just a normal kiss, an _epic_ one. She's been denying her feelings for you, but she can't do that anymore. So she runs to you. You sweep her off her feet . . ."

"Literally?" Bellamy cut in. The script said he was supposed to pick her up, but what were they going for here, some _Dirty Dancing_ lift?

"Yes, literally," Shumway said. "And the rest is history."

Bellamy glanced questioningly at Gina, who was on the opposite side of the stage, her ever-present smile on her face. "So you just want us to go for it?" he asked. Usually if he had to rehearse a kissing scene, he made sure to rehearse it with the actress—or _actor_ , in Miller's case—privately before letting the director see it. Just to get the awkwardness out of the way in private.

"Any day now," Shumway said, sounding impatient even though he'd just sprung this on them out of nowhere tonight.

Bellamy cleared his throat and got back into character, reciting the last line he said before the epic kiss moment. "Alyssa, wait . . ."

Gina stared at him blissfully, a little too exaggeratedly, and then ran towards him. She tried to leap into his arms, and he tried to hoist her up, but it didn't work out quite right. She ended up kneeing him in the groin, and he doubled over in pain. "Oh!" he yelped, holding his crotch with both hands.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" she gasped. "Oh god, Bellamy, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, wincing. "I think I just need a minute." Damn, that hurt like a motherfucker. He hadn't gotten a swift kick to the groin since the first time he and Bree had broken up.

"Actually, we'll probably just call it a wrap for the night," Shumway decided. "You two can rehearse that some more on your own, have it ready to go next time."

Bellamy just nodded, though he wasn't sure when he and Gina were going to find time to rehearse on their own. They both had jobs outside of this, so they were both busy.

When Shumway left, Gina asked, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, it just hurts." He stood up straighter, removed both his hands, and sucked up the pain, because thankfully, it was already receding.

"I don't need to take you to the hospital for some testicle retrieval operation, do I?" she joked.

"No, they're still intact."

She laughed a little, managing a smile. "Well, at least let me do something to make up for this. Do you wanna go get some dinner? I'm buying."

 _Dinner._ Was that code for a date, or did she really _just_ want to go get dinner? "No, you don't have to do that," he said.

"Please, I insist," she said. "It's the least I can do."

He scratched his eyebrow, not sure she really _had_ to do anything. It'd been an accident, nothing more, and he was fine. But he didn't want to hurt her feelings by declining her offer, so he just nodded and took her up on it.

They ended up not far away from Grounders, at Papa Marino's. It turned out this was Gina's favorite pizza place in town, just like it was his.

"Thanks for coming with me," she said as they waited for their pizza.

"Thanks for buying." He felt like a jerk letting the girl pay, but . . . hey, if she was offering . . .

"So what do you think? Are we gonna have this play ready by January?" she asked, sipping her cola through a straw.

"I don't know. We'll see." They still had a _lot_ of work to do, but at least he had all his lines memorized. So that was progress.

"I think we will," she declared confidently. "We work well together."

He nodded in agreement. As far as costars went, Gina was pretty cool, easygoing and down to earth. "Why'd the last guy quit?" he asked her, delving into the bowl of breadsticks on their table.

"He just . . . wasn't what they expected when they cast him," she explained. "And we lost his understudy really early on, so . . . we just needed to recast. And luckily for us, you came along."

"Yeah, first decent part I've had in a while."

She smiled at him and complimented, "I really like your take on the role. Every line's just so believable when you say it. It's like you _are_ Nathan. You're a really good actor."

He snorted. "Tell that to every casting agent who's ever turned me down."

She frowned. "Yeah, I can relate. I've been doing this for years now."

"Me, too."

"I can't even make a living off of it. I have to work retail part time."

"I work at a strip club," he informed her.

Her eyes widened.

"Not as one of the strippers," he quickly clarified. Hell no, he didn't have enough rhythm for that.

"I was gonna say . . . you should've auditioned for _Magic Mike_ ," she teased.

He laughed a little, not able to picture himself in that kind of role. "I'd love to do something like _Pearl Harbor._ But more historically accurate."

"I'd love to do _anything_ A list," she said. "But it's hard when you're not exactly a blonde bombshell."

 _Speaking of . . ._ he thought, immediately distracted when in walked Clarke. And Finn. If her nickname hadn't been the Girl Next Door, Blonde Bombshell would have been a fitting one.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she returned, immediately noticing Gina.

"Hey man, you mind if we join you?" Finn asked, taking a seat next to Bellamy before he'd even gotten a chance to respond.

"No, go ahead."

Clarke settled in next to Gina, across from her boyfriend, and just smiled at the girl she didn't even know.

"Oh, uh, this is Gina. She's in the play with me," Bellamy quickly introduced. "Gina, this is Finn and Clarke. They're my neighbors."

"Hi, nice to meet you guys," Gina said.

"You, too," Finn said. "You're in a play, huh? That's cool. We'll have to go see it."

Bellamy cast a quick glance at Clarke, wondering if she'd told Finn that she was helping him rehearse. She knew the lines for certain scenes just as well as Gina did.

"What kind of pizza you want, babe?" Finn asked, quickly flipping through the menu.

"Uh, you choose," she said. Turning to Gina, she asked, "So how's the play coming along?"

"Oh, it's coming," Gina replied. "Slowly but surely. I accidentally kneed this guy in the nuts tonight, so hopefully we don't do that when the time comes to perform."

"Yeah, that'd be bad," Clarke agreed.

Bellamy took a drink, unable to _not_ ask Clarke the obvious question. "Did you dance tonight?" She had on more makeup than she would have if she'd just stayed home, so the answer already seemed obvious.

"Yeah," she said.

 _And I wasn't there,_ he thought regretfully. _Again._

Finn piped up with an enthusiastic, "Hell yeah, she danced. I was there, got to watch her do her thing. She's so good up on that stage. None of the other girls even compare."

Clarke smiled a bit, averting Bellamy's eyes, and he wondered why that was. Was she maybe just a little bit embarrassed that Finn wasn't more jealous, more protective? If she wasn't . . . she should have been.

"I'm gonna go wash my hands," she announced, getting up and heading back to the bathrooms.

Bellamy watched her go, wondering how much skin she'd showed tonight. So far, topless was the farthest it'd gotten, and hopefully she wouldn't go any further. But her fans were going to keep wanting more, keep expecting it, and if she gave in to that . . . he shuddered inwardly at the thought.

"So Gina, how long have you lived in New York?" Finn asked, making small talk.

"Oh, years now," she replied. "You?"

"Just a couple months. I love it, though. Best city on earth."

Gina shrugged. "Well . . . sometimes."

 _Yeah, she knows what's up,_ Bellamy thought. Gina wasn't jaded; she knew New York could be a tough place to make it.

As riveting as the conversation was, Bellamy felt like he had to go say something to Clarke, so he asked Finn, "Can I get out? I gotta hit the head."

"Sure." Finn got up, and Bellamy slid out of the booth, muttering, "Thanks," as he took the same path Clarke had just gone back to the bathroom. Both bathrooms were around the corner, out of sight, so he'd just wait there for her.

She was coming out right as he headed back there, and when she opened the door, she bumped into him.

"Was Roan there tonight?" he asked outright.

"Yes, but he didn't bother me," she assured him.

 _Good,_ he thought, nodding. _Good_. Maybe her brush-off at Ontari's funeral had done the trick. One could only hope.

"Are you gonna take Gina home with you tonight?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. "You haven't done that for a while."

"No, because I gotta focus on the play," he explained. Besides, there was nothing wrong with jacking off. It was quick and simple and got the job done.

"She's _in_ the play," Clarke pointed out.

"Gotta keep it professional." Gina had been somewhat flirtatious these past few rehearsals, and he didn't want to give her the wrong idea.

"She likes you, though," Clarke noted. "I mean, why else would she come here with you tonight?"

"Well, you've come here with me before," her reminded her. "Does that mean _you_ like me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not like _that_ , obviously. But I have a boyfriend. Does Gina?"

He hadn't asked, nor did he intend to. "It doesn't matter," he said flippantly. "I'm not mixing business with pleasure."

"Hmm, listen to you. Anya would be so proud." She brushed past him and headed back out to the table. To her boyfriend. And to the girl Bellamy was definitely _not_ taking home with him tonight.

...

Clarke dragged herself out of bed early the next morning when she heard an insistent knocking on her door. "Bellamy," she groaned, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, "it's too cold to go running this morning." When she pulled open the door, however, it _definitely_ wasn't Bellamy standing out in the hallway. It was three people who had been her friends far longer than he had been: Monty, Maya, and Jasper. They were _there_.

"Hey!" Jasper exclaimed, immediately throwing his arms around her. "Clarke!"

She hugged him back, shell-shocked, then did the same to Maya. "Oh my god," she gasped, not sure if she was even really awake right now or if this was part of some leftover dream. "What're you guys doing here?"

"We're on Thanksgiving break," Monty explained as he took his turn giving her a quick hug. "We took a road trip to come see you."

"We've missed you guys so much," Maya added.

"I've missed you, too," she said, amazed that they were actually standing right there in front of her, in the flesh. Amazed and . . . and confused, actually, because she'd never told them where exactly to find her. "But how—how did you know to come here? I never gave you guys this address."

"It was literally dumb luck," Jasper replied.

"Yeah, we were just driving around looking for a hotel, and I spotted your car outside this place," Monty said. "Your landlord was downstairs, and he told us which apartment was yours."

"Oh, that was . . . nice of him." She didn't exactly _love_ the fact that her landlord was just giving out her apartment number to people he didn't even know, but then again, these three were a pretty trustworthy-looking bunch.

"Can we come in?" Maya asked eagerly.

"Yeah, sure." She stepped aside, wishing she—and this place—looked more put together. Since she'd just woken up, she looked a mess, and the kitchen was in as much disarray as her hair was. Dishes piled up in the sink, needing to be washed, trash that needed to be dumped down the chute. "It's kinda small, nothing too extravagant," she said, letting them take a look around.

"Oh, it's nice, though," Maya said. "Way nicer than their dorm room."

"Smells better, too," Monty mumbled.

"Well, I would hope." Clarke cringed as Jasper almost stepped on the mouse as it scampered towards its hole. "Oh, watch out for Wilma," she cautioned.

Her friend gave her a confused look.

"Our mouse," she clarified.

Maya cocked her head to the side. "You have a pet mouse?"

She shrugged. "Not by choice." She'd gotten used to Wilma, though. As long as the little critter kept to herself, she could stay.

"Is Finn here?" Monty asked, peering down the hall.

 _Good question,_ she thought. He hadn't been in the bed when she'd gotten up, but the bathroom door was shut, so . . .

Apparently having overheard, Finn strolled out of the bathroom as if on cue, hair damp, towel around his waist. "Here he is," he announced.

"Finn, what up, man?" Undeterred by the towel, Jasper closed the space between them, clasped hands with him, and gave him a bro-hug.

"J-Dog," Finn said, laughing as he used his stupid nickname for him, the nickname literally no one else ever used for him because it was so 90s. "What the hell you doin' here?"

"Trippin'," Jasper answered.

" _Road_ -tripping, he means." Monty rolled his eyes and gave Finn a bro-hug of his own. "Hey, man."

"Monty." Finn clapped him on the back, then hugged Maya more politely. "Hey, Maya, how you been?"

"Oh, good," she said. "You?"

"Great. I love it here."

Clarke dragged her hand through her hair, hoping she didn't look _too_ monstrous, figuring it didn't really matter even if she did because these guys were her best friends in the entire world, and asked, "Um, do you guys want some breakfast?"

Why she'd offered to cook was a mystery. It never seemed to go well. But she'd gotten pretty good at scrambled eggs lately, so at least it wasn't like she'd screw those up. They were a little runnier than she'd intended them to be, but still ultimately edible, so she fixed everyone up a plate, and they sat around in the living room enjoying a spontaneous breakfast together. It felt . . . weird, but definitely not unwelcomed. They used to eat lunch in the cafeteria together every single day.

"So Jaycee's not dating Scott anymore, because he got Stasia pregnant," Maya gossiped, filling Clarke and Finn in on the recent happenings between their grade's prom king and queen. "So now _they're_ having a baby, but Jaycee thinks she might be pregnant, too. But she doesn't know if it's Scott's."

"Who else's would it be?" Clarke asked, struggling to keep up with what sounded like a damn small town soap opera.

"Steven's."

Her eyes bulged. " _Smelly_ Steven?" No way. Jaycee had seriously lowered her standards enough to sleep with that guy?

"Oh, and Mikayla and Christine?" Jasper cut in. "Not even friends anymore."

"What?" Those two had been best friends since preschool. "I thought they were dorming together."

"Yeah, but apparently it ruined the friendship." Jasper rolled his eyes.

"Wow. So a lot's changed then, huh?" Truth be told, she hadn't anticipated so much . . . news. She'd stopped paying attention to most of the social media accounts of people she'd gone to high school with, so she was majorly out of the loop.

"Probably more than we even realize," Maya said. "It's weird. Half our class went to K-State, it seems, but I don't even see most of them anymore, let alone talk to them. Everybody's kind of got their new group of friends now, doin' the college thing. We mostly interact online."

"Hmm." Part of Clarke wondered what she'd be doing if she'd gone with them. Would she still have been part of the gossip? Or would she have just blended in on a big campus and become another face in the crowd? "And how is the college thing?" she asked. "Still awesome?"

Jasper snorted. "The parties are."

"Classes are still good, too," Maya said, "although I can barely get this guy to attend."

Jasper shrugged innocently. "What? I like sleep. Besides, they're boring."

"That's because we're getting our gen-eds out of the way," Maya reminded him.

 _Gen-eds?_ Clarke thought, confused. She didn't even know what that meant, what it stood for. It was some college lingo she wasn't able to understand.

"Yeah, I can't wait 'til I get into more of the upper level computer science classes," Monty said, finishing off the remainder of the eggs on his plate. "It's gonna be lit."

"Lit?" Clarke echoed, stifling a laugh. "I don't think I've ever heard you say _lit_ before."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "College has made me cooler."

She smiled at him, pretty sure he'd been plenty cool even before.

"So how's everyone back home?" Finn asked, setting his plate aside on the arm of the couch. "I haven't really talked to my parents a lot."

The three of them exchanged a quick look, and Monty replied, "I think everyone's doing pretty good."

"Yeah, your mom calls me sometimes, asking if I've heard from you," Maya added quietly.

Clarke thought about her mom, who she only talked to once a week now, if that, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. "Did you tell her you were coming out here to see me?" she asked, ignoring it.

"No. And don't worry, I won't tell her we did," Maya said. "Unless you want me to."

"I don't really care just so long as _she_ doesn't come out here." She shuddered at the thought. Nothing would be worse than her parents coming out here and crashing this little sanctuary she and Finn were trying to build for themselves. "I don't want her or my dad coming out here trying to lure me back home."

Her friends nodded in understanding, and it took a moment for Jasper to mumble, "Your dad and Jaha seem pretty happy. Your mom and Kane, too."

She nodded, feeling like such a bitch for not being able to muster anything more than, "That's great," in response to that. It wasn't like she _wanted_ her parents to be miserable. She just . . . she wanted them to be together, and that definitely wasn't happening anymore. "I guess they don't even miss me, huh?"

"Oh, that's not what I . . . they miss you, Clarke," Jasper assured her.

"Yeah," Maya agreed. "They just . . . respect that you're an adult now, and they know you can make your own decisions."

Clarke wasn't sure what they respected and what they didn't, but she knew for sure that they _wouldn't_ respect what she was doing for a living. Well. All the more reason for them to stay away then.

"Well, I hate to cut the high school reunion short, but I gotta head into work," Finn announced, standing and stretching.

"All day?" she asked, wishing he could just call in sick or something.

"All day," he confirmed. "Probably gonna be another late night. Love you."

She let him give her a quick peck on the lips before returning, "Love you, too."

"You guys are still gonna be here tomorrow, though, right?" he asked their friends.

"Of course," Monty said. "Tonight and tomorrow night. But then we'll have to leave to make it home in time for Thanksgiving."

"Alright. Well, I'll see you later then."

"Bye, Finn," they said as he slipped into his shoes, grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed out.

"Well, I guess that means you're our tour guide for the day, Clarke," Jasper said. "Unless you have to work, too."

Little did they know, she didn't work during the day. And despite how close she was to all three of them, they weren't about to find out. "No, I've got the day off," she said. "What do you guys wanna see?"

Clarke didn't feel like much of a tour guide at all as she struggled to navigate the busy streets of the city that day. She got turned around so often that they probably spent more time driving than they did actually _seeing_ anything. Probably should have just taken the subway, but she wasn't a pro at that, either. She did manage to get her friends to the Statue of Liberty, though, which they all thought was awesome, and the Brooklyn Bridge. Jasper and Maya didn't have a lock to hook onto it, but they pretended to, and they took a super cheesy picture kissing with the skyline in the background.

Monty had taken over driving the Cadillac by the time noon rolled around, and he ended up on some familiar streets, ones that Clarke drove on a near daily basis. "Definitely lunch time," he said, scanning the restaurants and shops. " _Definitely_ hungry."

"Hey, let's just eat here," Maya said, pointing to a restaurant Clarke had no interest in ever setting foot in again.

"Here?" Her stomach clenched as Monty pulled up in front of Dropship and shut the car off.

"Is it any good?" Jasper asked, already getting out of the car.

Clarke slowly got out, too, mumbling, "It's the place where I used to work."

"Used to?" Maya echoed. "Aren't you still waitressing?"

 _Oh, crap._ She hadn't meant to let that slip, so she quickly recovered. "Well, yeah, but I put in my two weeks' notice a couple days ago. I don't wanna go in there. It's awkward." She tried not to let her eyes bulge when she looked over her friends' shoulders and saw . . . her poster. Her scantily-clad Girl Next Door poster hanging up outside Grounders, right across the street. All Maya and Jasper had to do was turn around, and they'd see it, too. "Um, you know what? How about pizza?" she suggested rapidly. "There's a really great pizza place just down the street." She motioned adamantly towards Papa Marino's. "Let's just go there right now."

"Who's that?" Monty asked, staring across the street.

"No one!" she yelped, trying to standing in front of him to block the poster.

He peered around her, though, eyes dreamily focused on . . . something that definitely couldn't have been her poster. When Clarke peeked over her shoulder, she was relieved to find that he was watching Harper cross the street. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and a book, a folder, and notebook in her hands. She tripped near the curb and dropped everything, and Monty sprang into action. "Here, let me help you," he said, bending down to help her gather everything up.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at him. "That's so nice." She sounded surprised that someone would be so considerate.

 _Very nice,_ Clarke thought in agreement, still a bit worried about how close in proximity that poster was. At least Harper seemed to have caught all of Monty's attention now.

"Hey, Clarke," Harper said when she and Monty had collected everything. She came up to them with a smile on her face, but she kept smiling at Monty most of all.

"Hey. Harper, these are my friends from high school. This is Maya, Jasper, and Monty. Guys, this is Harper," Clarke introduced them all quickly.

"Nice to meet you, Harper," Jasper said.

"You, too." She said the words to him, but once again, her eyes drifted over to Monty.

"We were just gonna go get pizza _down_ the street," Clarke said, gesturing that way emphatically, "so do you maybe wanna come with us?"

"Sure, I'd love to," she said.

"Great. That way." She pointed her friends in the right direction, and Jasper slung his arm around Maya's shoulders, leading the way. Clarke had to pull Harper back from Monty so she could quietly whisper, "They don't know I'm a stripper. Don't tell them."

"Secret's safe with me," Harper promised. Then she added, "I love your Asian friend."

"I can tell," Clarke mumbled, laughing lightly as the poster disappeared from her peripheral vision.

They had an easygoing afternoon, spent most of it walking around the city and heading into some stores so her friends could do some shopping. She didn't bother to tell them that the only store she shopped at anymore was the thrift store. Her friends were all financially . . . comfortable. Monty and Maya had scholarships, but they also had parents who were helping them pay for college. Jasper had never had to work a day in his life, because his dad had some fancy job he couldn't even spell or pronounce. They mainly just purchased little things, though, like magnets and pens. Monty turned on the charm and gave Harper the giant Emoji ring he won out of the claw machine at Ace Bar. She, of course, loved it.

That evening, they went back to Clarke's place with Chinese takeout and relaxed. Harper was old enough to go buy beer for all of them, so she did, and they wasted no time breaking into it. "Cheers," Jasper said as they all tapped their cans together. "To having the old high school gang reunited."

"Plus one," Monty added, and Harper blushed.

"Reunited and it feels so good," Jasper crooned before taking a big drink.

"Yeah, it's been a really fun day," Maya agreed.

"There's a lot to do here, lots to see," Monty said. "We'll have to come back sometime, stay a little longer." He was talking to his friends but still just looking at Harper. In fact, Clarke was beginning to wonder if their eyes were magnetically drawn to each other or something. They'd barely looked away from each other all day.

"Clarke, do you remember that—that one time in second grade when we went to the state capital?" Maya asked. "Of _Kansas_? And we thought we were in Washington D.C.?"

"God, we were so stupid," Clarke said, recalling how they'd raced through the halls of the capital building looking for the president.

"Well, we were, like, seven," Maya pointed out. "Remember how we used to think Kansas City was big? It doesn't even compare to this place."

"No, it really doesn't," she agreed, not sure how she'd ever even worked up the courage to go through with this plan to move out here. Finn was . . . well, he was Finn. He was daring and adventurous by nature. And no, she wasn't a coward by any means, but she'd traditionally been so much more cautious than him. (Like she was the one who'd insisted they watch instructional videos on how to put on a condom before they started having sex, even though he'd had it before.) Coming here had been a _major_ step outside her comfort zone, something completely unfamiliar to her. But she'd been desperate for a change.

"So did you grow up here?" Monty was asking Harper, breaking Clarke out of her thoughts.

"No, but not too far away. I'm a Jersey girl," Harper replied. "But not like Snooki or J-Woww or anything. They gave all of us a bad name."

Monty laughed.

Jasper finished off the rest of his drink and burped. "You got any more beer?" he asked.

"Let me check." She got up and made her way over to the fridge, where there wasn't much food, let alone any alcohol. She didn't want to bother Harper with going out to get any more, not when she and Monty were _clearly_ hitting it off so well, so she said, "I'm gonna go see if I can get some more," before venturing next door. Surely Bellamy had something to drink on hand.

When he came to the door, he had his script in one hand and was only wearing his boxers.

"Hey, I need beer," she blurted.

He made a face. "Barkin' up the wrong tree, Princess."

"Please?" She knew he never served her, but couldn't he make an exception just this once? "My friends are in town, and one of them really likes to drink."

He thought about it for a moment, then rolled his eyes and left the door hanging open as he went back inside. He bent down, grabbed a six-pack out of his fridge, and brought it out to her.

"Thank you," she said, making a mental note to pay him back for this.

"Did you know they were coming?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Or did they surprise you?"

"It was a surprise," she said. "I just did the whole NYC grand tour thing like you did with Octavia. But I think they were slightly more impressed." Despite her lack of navigational skills, all three of her friends seemed to have had a great time today, and once Harper had tagged along they hadn't gotten so turned around.

Clarke's door opened suddenly, and Maya poked her head out. "Oh, there you are," she said. "Hey, Harper volunteered to go get more beer, but . . . clearly you've got that covered." She smiled at Bellamy, stepping out into the hallway. "Hi."

"Hey."

 _He's shirtless,_ Clarke thought. _I'm standing here talking to my shirtless neighbor._ It probably looked weirder than it actually was. "Oh, Maya, this is Bellamy. Bellamy, Maya," she introduced.

"Hey. Sorry, we're probably being really loud," Maya apologized.

"Oh, don't worry," he assured her. "Clarke's endured plenty of noise on my side of the wall."

" _Plenty_." She playfully rolled her eyes and smiled.

"Well, hey, if that's your beer, you should come hang out with us," Maya invited. "The more the merrier, right?"

Bellamy glanced at Clarke questioningly, and she realized she'd been rude not to invite him over in the first place. "Yeah, come on over if you want."

"I'll think about it," he said, waving to Maya as he slipped back inside and shut the door.

"Sorry," Maya apologized. "It's probably not my place to invite him."

"No, it's fine." Clarke re-entered the apartment with her, not about to mention that . . . she kind of spent a lot of time hanging out with Bellamy these days.

...

Clarke's friends were probably the same age she was. So . . . eighteen/nineteen. Bellamy couldn't believe he was actually going to go hang out with teenagers for the night. But it beat hanging out by himself, so he got dressed, put on his glasses, and walked on over there. The door was unlocked, so he let himself in.

"Hey, he showed!" the dark-haired girl, Maya or whatever, exclaimed when he walked in.

"He?" Jasper asked. "Who he?"

"This is Bellamy, my neighbor," Clarke explained. "And my friend."

He smirked subtly, glad to hear her tack that on.

"And your coworker," Harper added.

"Uh, right," Clarke said. "He tends the bar at the restaurant I work at."

 _Restaurant,_ Bellamy registered. So she hadn't told her friends about her job. Big fucking surprise. Hell, he wouldn't ruin it for her, though. Whether or not she wanted to be honest with them was her prerogative.

"You already met Maya, but this is Monty and Jasper," Clarke said to him, pointing out first the Asian kid, then the stoner-looking one.

"Wow, man, you are my idol," Jasper said dazedly. "I wish I looked like you."

Bellamy wasn't really sure what to say to that, so he just mumbled, "Thanks," and left it at that.

"He's a little drunk," Maya explained on his behalf.

"Just a little bit." Jasper started to crawl on top of her, making exaggerated animal growls and he started to grab at her and kiss her, and she yelped and giggled with delight.

Bellamy sat down on the floor next to Clarke, content to let one couple be drunk and horny while another couple seemed to be emerging. One look at Harper and that Monty kid, and he could tell there were sparks. For _whatever_ reason. Monty was a twig, and Harper was hot enough to get any guy she wanted. But she kept smiling at him and laughing at things he said, and the conversation they were having appeared to be . . . exclusively theirs.

"Is Harper flirting with your friend?" he asked Clarke.

"I think they're flirting with each other," Clarke said, handing him a beer. "And that's weird, because Monty doesn't even know how to flirt. He's never had a girlfriend."

"Huh." Harper _had_ once revealed to him that she was into nerdy guys, and this kid seemed to fit the description, so . . . stranger things had happened.

"I've just been sitting back and letting love blossom all day," Clarke said, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Hmm." He was pretty sure he caught a whiff of her shampoo or something because . . . she smelled good. Looked good, too. He dug the casual t-shirt and jeans look.

Even though he was usually more social and outgoing at a party, this wasn't really much of a party, so there was really no reason to be either of those things. He pretty much sat there and drank while Clarke and her friends recalled all sorts of things from high school—the time Jasper had fallen down all the football bleachers, the time Maya had thrown up in the lunch line, and the time Monty had nearly gotten suspended for accidentally hacking into a teacher's gradebook. He learned some things about Clarke on their trip down memory lane, like apparently she and Finn had been voted 'Most Likely to Get Married' in their high school yearbook. Okay then. And apparently the Arkadia cheerleading squad was now officially outlawed from wearing bikinis at the summer carwash fundraisers because of how inappropriately hot Clarke had looked in hers.

He could picture that.

He'd been there for about an hour when Monty retreated into the bedroom, grabbed Clarke's guitar, and came back out into the living room with a gleam in his eyes. "Let's jam," he said, strumming a few chords.

"Oh, I missed our jam sessions!" she squealed.

Bellamy didn't recognize the song until Monty started singing it—kid had a decent voice. It was one of those 80s classics everyone knew the words to, and it never got old. Harper sat there, hanging onto every word he sang, and when the chorus kicked in and Clarke joined him . . . well, then Bellamy started to hang on, too.

" _If you're lost, you can look, and you will find me_

 _Time after time_

 _If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting_

 _Time after time."_

She had a beautiful voice.

" _If you're lost, you can look, and you will find me_

 _Time after time_

 _If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting_

 _Time after time."_

Their friends clapped for them, but Bellamy just smiled at her, wondering if he was the only guy in the world who thought just sitting there listening to her sing was even better than watching her work that pole was.

When she got up to go to the bathroom, he wanted to let her know how much he'd liked the spontaneous jam session, so he waited in the hallway for her to come out.

"That's a good song," he said. "I—I like the way you sing it."

"Thanks," she said.. "It's one of my favorites."

"Oh, yeah?" It was better than that Taylor Swift shit was.

"Yeah," she said. "It makes me think of Finn."

 _Of Finn,_ he thought, nodding a bit dejectedly. _Time After Time_ made her think of _Finn_?

She squeezed past him and went to rejoin her friends, and he swallowed his pride. Of course it made her think of Finn. Who else would it make her think of?


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20_

As if regular push-ups weren't bad enough, Harper convinced Clarke to try something she called "superman push-ups" when they rehearsed their next duo routine. This special variation of the move required them to do push-ups while squeezing the pole tightly with their inner thighs, thereby keeping their legs elevated the entire time. Harper made it look easy, but Clarke found them to be excruciating.

"This is probably the wrong time to tell you I always skipped the day we did pushup testing in PE in high school," she grumbled, struggling to lower her torso towards the floor again. It was even harder to raise back up.

"Almost there. Only five more to go," Harper motivated her.

Five more superman push-ups felt like twenty regular ones, but Clarke labored through. She collapsed on the floor once she was done, though, feeling exhausted. "You know, we don't get enough credit for all the physical exertion we put into this," she lamented.

"We really don't," Harper agreed, curling her legs around her pole. "Wait 'til I have you try the caterpillar ones."

Clarke cringed, not even sure what that could be. Maybe she could YouTube it later, get an idea of what was in store for her next time she and Harper rehearsed together. "Okay, gonna have to call it good for the day," she said, struggling to sit up. "I'm sure my friends are back from their sight-seeing expedition, and I need to go entertain them."

"So—so everyone's still here?" Harper asked shyly. "Maya and Jasper and . . . and Monty?"

Clarke laughed at her friend's utter obviousness and grabbed hold of the pole to help herself up. "Yes, Monty's still here."

"I asked about everyone," Harper mumbled.

"But you were really only wondering about him."

Harper blushed as she got to her feet. "I know, it's weird. He's a college freshman and I'm . . . not. But I've always had a thing for the nerdy type, and he was so cute and sweet yesterday." She bit her bottom lip nervously. "Do you think I stand a chance?"

Clarke gave her a look. "Harper. You're an exotic dancer; he's a comic book enthusiast. If you're into him, he's into you. Trust me."

Harper sighed dramatically. "I don't know how it would even work if it did happen. It's not like he lives here. And he's heading home tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well . . . maybe I could just get his number or something."

It was so cute seeing Harper all crushed out. And although Monty hadn't said anything to her last night or this morning, it was obvious that he was feeling crushed out all the same. It was like watching puppy love blossom right before her very eyes, and she couldn't have been more thrilled. Monty was awesome, and Harper was awesome, so they'd be awesome together. If they could manage the long distance thing.

"Come over again tonight," she suggested, willing to help her friend's crush along. "It's Finn's birthday. We're gonna have, like, a small party for him. It'd give you an excuse to get your flirt on."

Harper's whole face lit up with glee. "That sounds perfect."

 _Hopefully,_ Clarke thought. The last time she had _sort of_ tried matchmaking with Bellamy and Raven . . . well, that had stalled out before it'd even started.

On their way out to the bar, Harper stopped, and Clarke nearly bumped into her. "Whoa. Speaking of flirting . . ." Harper said. "Who's that out at the bar with Bellamy?"

"What?" Bellamy was flirting with someone? Or someone was flirting with him? Clarke peered over Harper's shoulder and caught sight of that one girl, Bellamy's co-star, the one he'd been hanging out with at the pizza place the other night. She was sitting at the bar, talking to him, laughing at something he'd said, and he appeared to be pouring her another drink. "Oh, that's Gina," she said, struggling to remember her name. "She's in the play with him."

"Ah. So they've been spending some time together lately, huh?"

"I guess." How much time, she wasn't sure. Although she definitely hadn't _heard_ anything happening on the other side of the wall, so . . . maybe they were just friends.

"Hmm. Well, she can't be any worse than Bree," Harper said. "I gotta go get ready. I'll see you later, Clarke."

"Bye," Clarke said, hanging back while her friend left. She watched Bellamy and Gina a little longer, trying to figure out what exactly was going on there. Bellamy said he didn't want to mix business with pleasure, yet . . . it looked like they were mixing.

Clarke decided there was no harm in sidling up to the bar and joining into their conversation, whatever they were talking about. She caught the tail end of it as Gina said, "I'm sure it's not as horrible as it sounds. It can't be."

"What sounds horrible?" she asked, trying to butt in without seeming like she was butting in.

"Oh, hi, Clarke," Gina greeted her pleasantly. "I'm trying to convince Bellamy here to come see a movie with me tonight, but it's gotten really bad reviews."

Then why did she even want to go see it? Withholding that potentially snippy-sounding question, she shrugged and said, "Sometimes the bad movies are the best."

"That's what I keep telling him."

"I don't know, _Killer Klowns from Outer Space_ was pretty bad," Bellamy muttered.

Clarke smirked.

"Oh, I think I've seen that one," Gina said. "I couldn't tell if they were trying to make it scary or just knew it was stupid all along."

"They knew it was stupid." Bellamy headed down towards the other end of the bar when a new customer sat down.

Gina took a drink, glanced over her shoulder at the stage, and asked, "So are you dancing tonight?"

"No, I mainly do weekends," Clarke replied. Tonight was all Roma and Viv.

"I wish I could dance," Gina said. "But I'm about as uncoordinated as they come."

 _Well, you won't be getting up on that pole then,_ Clarke thought.

"I'm sure it takes a lot of practice to get up there and do what you do, though," Gina went on. "I imagine it's not as easy as it looks."

"No, it's not." There was some of that recognition for their hard work she and Harper had been claiming they never got. It was nice of Gina, she supposed, to say something like that. Gina was . . . Gina was nice.

But that didn't stop her from feeling grateful when Bellamy returned. "How much longer do you have to work?" she asked him.

"Just an hour," he answered.

"And then we can go see that movie," Gina said. "Maybe?"

He sort of half-cringed, half-smiled. "I don't know."

 _He's trying to give her a hint,_ Clarke recognized. _Right?_ He wasn't interested, and she was still trying. But if Bellamy were interested, he wouldn't have hesitated to say yes to the movie. In fact, knowing Bellamy, he would have skipped it and went straight to the sack.

But maybe that was his plan. Maybe he just wanted to take her home and go for it.

"Well, actually, I was kind of hoping you might stop by my place tonight," Clarke found herself blurting out. "Finn's birthday party. I know it's kind of last minute, but we kind of just decided to have one this morning."

Beside her, Gina's hopeful smile faded, and she looked down at the counter with resignation in her eyes.

 _Sorry,_ Clarke thought. She felt . . . kind of bad for crushing the girl's hopes for a date night.

"Yeah, I might swing by," Bellamy said. "I don't have a present, though."

"That's okay." The party itself was kind of the present. "You're welcome to come, too, of course," she added on for Gina's benefit. The least she could do was extend the invitation to her.

"Sure," Gina said quietly.

Clarke sighed. "Well, I'd better head home and . . . get that started then." Actually, it was quite possible the party was already underway, depending on how late Finn had decided to work. "I'll see you guys later." She slid off her stool, feeling fairly certain that she would be seeing Bellamy later. Maybe Gina would be with him, but . . . maybe not.

...

Bellamy watched Clarke leave, wondering if it was just him or if she'd seemed a little . . . off just now. He was probably just imagining things.

"So, movie or party," Gina said. "Decisions, decisions . . ."

It wasn't a hard decision, though. Not for him. Not really. Even though he didn't really give a shit about wishing Finn a happy birthday, he definitely wanted to go. "I just don't know if I feel like sittin' in a theater for a couple hours," he said. Truth be told, he just didn't feel like sitting in one with _Gina._ Nothing against her or anything, because she was a nice girl. But . . . he wasn't looking to go out on a date with her.

"So you wanna go to the party?" she asked.

A party definitely sounded like the better option. There would be plenty of other people there, so that definitely _wouldn't_ be a date. "Well, they're my neighbors," he said nonchalantly. "I _should_ go." He took his phone out of his pocket when he got a text, and it couldn't have been a more perfect one for the moment.

"Who's that?" Gina asked him as he texted back.

"My friend Miller. He's bored, wants to go do something," Bellamy replied. "I told him he can come to the party, too." Perfect. Now they were a group, not a couple. No potential for her to mistake this for a date now.

"Can I come?" Gina asked.

"Well, she invited you," he reminded her.

"Yeah, but she was really just inviting you. And if you don't wanna drag me along . . ."

"No, I'm not dragging you. You can come." Just because he didn't want to date the girl didn't mean he wasn't going to be friends with her. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, so she could come. Once they were there, though, he wasn't going to stay by her side the whole night. That was the kind of thing boyfriends did.

...

If Clarke had had her way, Finn's birthday party would have been a small event. Just her, him, their friends. But of course he'd invited people from work, so when she got home, her small apartment was swamped with people. Most of them were still people she didn't know, many of the same faces who had come to her birthday party a couple months ago. Thank God Monty and Jasper and Maya were there so she had people to talk to. Except Monty was really only interested in talking to Harper. From the second she showed up wearing a form-fitting maroon dress, Monty was a goner. They sat down on the couch together and started talking, and Clarke suspected they might be there all night.

Raven was there, of course, and Finn introduced her to Maya and Jasper. She kept conversing with them while Finn headed out to go get a new keg. They'd already gone through the first one.

"You guys are too cute," Raven told Maya and Jasper. "Seriously, they don't make couples like this anymore."

Jasper put his arm around his girlfriend and pulled her into his side. "She's my soul mate."

"Aww," Maya cooed, "you're either really drunk or really sweet right now."

"Possibly both," Jasper acknowledged.

Maya laughed at that, then said, "Oh, look, there's Bellamy," and pointed to the door.

Clarke looked over and saw him walk in with his friend Miller. And Gina. He'd brought Gina.

Raven grunted. "Not surprising to see a woman with him. I don't know how she puts up with him, though."

"You don't like Bellamy?" Maya asked her.

She shrugged. "Not his biggest fan."

 _Gina is,_ Clarke thought. The girl was holding onto his arm like she was his girlfriend or something.

Was she?

"Hey, guys," Bellamy said as he, Miller, and Gina approached. "Raven."

"Bellamy," she returned curtly.

A moment of prolonged silence settled upon them until Miller blurted, "Well, this is awkward. I'm gonna go flirt with some hot guys."

When he left, Raven said, "I'm gonna do the same," and left, too.

"What was that all about?" Jasper asked.

"Clarke tried to hook me and Raven up once," Bellamy explained.

"I did not," she denied.

He gave her a look.

"Okay, maybe just a little." She'd assumed that one good-looking person would like another good-looking person, but then they'd gotten into that whole gender in the modeling industry debate.

"Alright, well, we're gonna go mingle a bit," Maya announced.

"And by that, she means make out." Jasper smirked as he and his girlfriend meandered off.

 _And here we are again,_ Clarke thought, left with just Bellamy and Gina. Gina, who still had her hands coiled around Bellamy's arm.

"I'm gettin' a drink," he blurted, slinking away from her.

And then there were two. Clarke wasn't sure how she kept ending up alone with Gina tonight, but . . . it was awkward just like Bellamy and Raven were. They didn't know each other well, didn't know what to talk about, and really . . . he was the _only_ thing they even remotely had in common.

"Are you Bellamy's girlfriend?" she blurted, just to see what Gina would say.

"Oh, um . . . not really."

She frowned. Not _really_? What did that even mean? She either was or she wasn't, no grey area.

"So have you met Bellamy's friend Miller?" Gina asked.

"Yeah."

"I hope it's okay that we brought him."

 _We?_ She was referring to her and Bellamy as _we_ now? "Of course."

They stood next to each other unsurely, and Clarke desperately wanted to find an escape route. What the hell was taking Finn so long with that keg? Was he drinking half of it on his way upstairs or something?

"Fun party," Gina commented.

"Thanks." It wasn't much, but Finn enjoyed any party.

"Good thing you invited us, 'cause I don't think Bellamy was gonna change his mind about the movie," Gina said.

 _No, he wasn't,_ Clarke thought. And she'd known that. Which was why she'd invited him here instead. She knew he'd show.

God, she felt like a bitch. What the hell was she doing ruining this girl's chance at a date night? She wasn't usually so petty.

"Do you like him?" she asked outright, even though she already knew.

"Isn't it obvious?" Gina said. "He's so . . . nice. And obviously good-looking. That's a rare combination in a city like this."

It was a rare combination in general, but . . . Clarke couldn't very well disagree. Bellamy could get a little annoying and frustrating sometimes, but ultimately, he _was_ a good guy. And anyone with eyes could see how sexy he was.

"I just can't stop thinking about him," Gina admitted, all of her feelings openly bubbling up to the surface now. "I feel like a school girl with a crush. It's ridiculous."

"Well, I think lots of girls have felt that way with Bellamy," Clarke pointed out.

"Have you?"

 _Have I?_ she thought, taken aback. What kind of question was that? "Well, I have a boyfriend," she pointed out. "Bellamy doesn't really do the whole girlfriend thing, though, so . . . just be careful."

Gina nodded slowly, but she didn't seem deterred as she walked away, probably to go find him again.

 _Just let it happen,_ Clarke told herself. Chances were, Bellamy was either going to sleep with her once or date her for a while. Regardless of which one he chose, he'd be working with her for the next few weeks. So that probably meant she'd be seeing more of Gina.

"Clarke."

She stiffened when she felt Cage slide behind her, his breath making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Nice little party you got here."

She rolled her eyes at the backhanded compliment. Nice _little_ party. As if to insinuate that he could have thrown such a bigger and better one.

The nice thing about hosting a party was that she could get a damn drink if she wanted to. There wasn't a keg, but there were still some beers left in the fridge. She got one, popped open the tab, and took a big drink. In fact, she could go ahead and get drunk if she wanted to. Wasn't like she was driving anywhere.

"Hey, are you okay?"

She stopped drinking when Maya came up to her. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, you just seem stressed."

"Well, hosting a party can be kind of stressful," she pointed out.

"It's fun, though, even though I hardly know anyone. And Monty's having a _great_ time."

Clarke glanced over her friend's shoulder and saw that Harper and Monty had scooted even closer together on the couch. She was leaning in close to him, and he _almost_ had his arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, Marper's happening," she predicted. Monty was a virgin, but he might not be at the end of the night.

"I can't believe she's a stripper," Maya remarked.

Clarke tensed. "She told him that?"

"Yeah. I was shocked."

"Why?"

"She just seemed so . . . sweet and wholesome."

Clarke frowned. "She can still be sweet and wholesome even though she's a stripper."

"Well, yeah, I don't mean to insinuate . . ." Maya trailed off and started over. "She's a really nice girl. But can you imagine what his parents are gonna think if they find out he's dating a _stripper_? They're gonna freak out. And I can't say I blame them."

 _Just like my parents would freak out if they knew I was doing the same thing,_ she thought. That was why they could never know. Even her friends . . . they might look at her differently if they knew. So she wasn't telling them, either.

"She only strips so she can pay for college," Clarke pointed out, feeling the need to defend Harper's career choice. "Once she graduates, she's done. And then she'll have a degree."

"Oh, yeah, she seems really smart, don't get me wrong," Maya acknowledged. "I guess I just . . . I don't know, I can't really imagine doing that for a living."

Clarke averted her eyes, trying not to look upset. But everything was upsetting her tonight. Her boyfriend's stupid cousin showing up to this party. Maya's unintentionally hurtful words. She would have loved to have Bellamy by her side just so she could vent to him or maybe slip outside to the balcony with him for a while. But he'd shown up with Gina. And that upset her, too.

...

Bellamy wasn't sure how he ended up slipping into the bedroom with his co-star. It was weird. One minute, he was walking out of the bathroom after an epic and much-needed piss, and then the next, she was grabbing his hand and leading him in there.

"So . . . this is a fun party," she said, shutting the door.

"It's alright." He wasn't actually having that much fun, mostly because he didn't feel like networking with any of these people, he had to resist the urge to ask Raven if she'd pulled that stick out of her ass from the last conversation they'd had, and Gina was . . . being clingy. She was a sweet girl, really, but . . . he just wanted to hang out with Clarke for a little bit, and it was really hard to do that when another girl was constantly following him around.

"Thanks for bringing me," Gina said, swaying towards him. "So . . . what do you wanna do now?"

He looked around the room, at the bed Finn and Clarke shared at night, at her guitar perched in the corner, and played dumb. "What do you mean?"

"Well . . . Shumway _did_ tell us we need to rehearse that kiss," she pointed out. "Maybe that's something we can do for a while."

Oh, he'd sensed that was where she was going with this. And he wanted to get out of it without hurting her feelings. "I don't think there's enough room for you to run into my arms in here."

"Well, we don't have to rehearse that part." Grinning, she closed the distance between them, closed her eyes, and waited for a kiss. Not wanting to be a dick, he went ahead and gave her one. And technically, it wasn't a bad kiss. It was fine. It was . . . just fine.

"That was nice," she said when their lips separated.

He didn't even know what to say, so he just stood there silently. And that was a mistake, because it gave her ample opportunity to lean in for another kiss. And he gave that to her, too. He gave her the kind of kiss he'd give to her on stage, the kind that would make the audience cheer, the kind of kiss the curtain could close on. He really was just rehearsing. She wasn't.

The door swung open suddenly, and his heart sank into his stomach when Clarke walked in. "Oh, sorry," she apologized quickly.

"No, we're sorry, Clarke," Gina said. "We weren't . . ." She trailed off, smiling sheepishly.

 _We really weren't,_ he wanted to say. He wasn't going to screw Gina in Clarke's bedroom. Hell, he wasn't going to screw her at all.

"I didn't mean to . . ." Clarke glanced back and forth between him and the floor, then just pulled the door shut as she left the room again.

 _Shit,_ he thought. That had to have looked like something it wasn't.

As he and Gina walked out of the room, she suggested, "Maybe we should take this somewhere else."

Take what, the kissing? Clearly she was down for more than that, and it wasn't in his nature to turn down girls who were offering.

"You live right next door, right?" she said. "We could go over to your place."

Bellamy spotted Clarke pushing through the crowd, making her way to the door, and he said, "I have to go talk to her," and left Gina hanging as he rushed out after her.

Clarke was zooming down the hall when he walked out the door. "Hey!" he called, running after her. "Clarke, where the hell you goin'?"

"I just need some air," she called back. "Too many people in there."

There were a lot of people, but . . . hell, she got up and danced half-naked in front of a lot more people than that. It seemed like a flimsy excuse for getting away. "You alright?" he asked, following her down the stairs.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I mean, I'm a little repulsed that you and Gina were about to throw down in my bedroom, but . . ."

"We weren't gonna _throw down_."

"Oh, really?" She spun around at the landing of the stairwell, looking a little bit . . . heated. "Then what exactly were you gonna do?"

He stepped off the stairs, lamely mumbling, "We were rehearsing."

"Oh, _nice_ euphemism."

"I'm serious."

She rolled her eyes and continued marching down the next flight of stairs.

Scampering to catch up with her, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Hey, would you stop? What the hell's your problem?" he demanded.

"Me? I don't have a problem," she insisted. "I just . . . I just wish you would make up your mind, Bellamy. Figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

"Yourself. Your . . . love life. I mean, if you can even call it that. What're you looking for here, your new Bree?"

He grunted. "Hardly."

"Then what're you doing? Is Gina gonna be your actual girlfriend, or are you just leading her on?"

He hated the insinuation there, that he might just be using her for sex. Sure, he hooked up with plenty of girls, but he was transparent with all those girls. He never let them think it was leading up to anything more than just sex. "I'm not leading her on," he denied.

"She likes you. Can't you see that? So either you like her, too, or you're just being a jerk. I mean, why would you even bring her here tonight if you just wanna-"

"You invited her!" he roared.

"I was being polite."

And he'd just been being polite by bringing her. Maybe he shouldn't have kissed her, but he could go back and correct that, let her know that it was _just_ practice for the play, nothing more. "Should've just taken her to that movie then," he mumbled, thinking now that that would've been a lot less dramatic than this shit.

"Why don't you just go take her to Pound Town?" Clarke suggested agitatedly. "Clearly you want to."

"Fine, maybe I will."

"Fine."

"Great." Pissed off, he stormed back up the stairs. He went back to the party, found Gina hanging out in the hallway exactly where he'd left her, and grabbed her hand. "Let's go," he said, pulling her out the door almost roughly.

He took his shirt off the second he and Gina got to his place, and even though she seemed surprised that this was all of a sudden happening so quickly, she didn't object when he put his arms around her and pulled her in close to make out with her some more. She was actually a pretty good kisser, and even though he didn't have some _insane_ level of physical attraction to her, he knew could get it hard and get it in. Probably could give her the best sex of her life. But then . . . she'd show up to rehearsal tomorrow night, thinking that they were something more than they were, and . . . he didn't want to break her heart.

He'd just lifted her shirt over her head when he realized what a colossal jerk was being. He'd seen plenty of jerks growing up, plenty of men his mom had dragged home, and he didn't want to remind himself of any one of them.

"What?" Gina asked, gazing up at him confusedly.

"I can't," he said, taking a step back from her. "I'm sorry." Bending down, he picked her shirt up off the floor and handed it to her apologetically. But at least he'd stopped it now before it went too far.

Clutching the shirt to her chest, she averted his eyes and whispered, "Well, this is humiliating."

"I'm really sorry," he said again.

"Yeah, you keep saying that." She yanked her shirt back on and wiped tears from beneath her eyes. "If you're not attracted to me, that's fine," she said, her voice quivering. "We can fake it for the play."

"No, it's not that . . ." It wasn't her fault that he wasn't into it. She was a good girl, hadn't done anything wrong. "I'm just not really looking for anything right now."

Sniffing back tears, she challenged, "Not even Clarke?"

He tensed, surprised that she'd brought Clarke up. Although . . . he'd ditched her and run out the door after Clarke tonight. So maybe he shouldn't have been surprised that she'd said something.

"It doesn't take a genius to notice it," Gina said sadly. "You have feelings for her."

 _Feelings._ He let the word marinate in his mind, although it'd been there for a while now. Yeah, he had plenty of feelings, and lately, they'd definitely all been centered around one specific person. "She's nineteen," he said, more to himself than to Gina. "She has a boyfriend."

"That doesn't mean you don't have feelings for her."

 _No,_ he thought, _it doesn't._

"It's okay," Gina said, sounding completely disappointedly, utterly resigned. "I'm used to losing out to the blonde bombshell, remember?" She forced a sad smile, then hung her head and walked out the door.

Bellamy knew he probably should have felt even worse than he did, should have dwelled on the fact that he'd hurt Gina's feelings more than he was. But now that she'd called him out on it and he'd actually let himself own up to it . . . all he could think about was Clarke. Right now, she probably assumed that he and Gina were getting it on. She'd crawl in bed next to Finn tonight and maybe do the same with him. And she'd show up to work tomorrow, get up on that stage and take her clothes off, and he'd watch her, trying _not_ to be just another guy in the crowd who she was able to arouse, but failing miserably.

He honestly thought about calling up Bree, just because he was desperate. But with her blonde hair, that was probably a bad idea. In fact, sex with anyone tonight was probably a bad idea. There was definitely only one girl on his mind, and until he managed to get her _off_ his mind, he couldn't use someone else like that. He wasn't going to be like all those men his mom had dragged home over the years.

He still felt like a jerk, though, when he lay down in bed and tried to talk himself out of doing what he _knew_ he wanted to do. It didn't work. He did it anyway. Reached down and quickly undid his pants, pushing them and his underwear down far enough to take his cock out. He stroked it hard and fast, closing his eyes, picturing Clarke. Clarke's small hands wrapped around a shiny pole. Clarke's blonde hair whipping around her shoulders. Clarke walking on top of _his_ bar, wearing _his_ shirt. The sweat on Clarke's heaving chest after they finished their run. Clarke's mouth forming the words of _Time After Time_ as she sang for everyone last night.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. And just those thoughts alone . . . they were enough to get him there.


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21_

Seeing Clarke was inevitably going to be awkward for Bellamy, and he knew that. He knew he'd feel guilty for . . . fantasizing about her, but he also knew he'd do that again. So his best bet was just to act normal around her, not do anything to alert her to any of these feelings Gina had called him out on having.

She was at the club rehearsing up on the main stage with Harper when he showed up to work. The two girls bumped into each other as they both tried to spin around the pole and conked heads. "Oh my god, Clarke, what're you doing?" Harper yelped.

"I have no idea." She laughed a bit but stopped abruptly when she caught sight of him coming in the door. She stared at him, falling silent, and he stared back at her, trying to keep his eyes focused on his face rather than the sports bra and spandex shorts she was wearing.

"Why don't we make that a crossed knee sit and see if it looks more graceful?" Luna suggested.

Clarke tore her eyes from his and got back into rehearsal mode. "Got it." She swung herself up high on the pole and did the move Luna was asking for, and Harper did the same move lower to the ground.

Making his way over to the bar where Murphy was already at work stocking everything for the night, he saw that things . . . looked different. There weren't just drinks behind the bar now. There were . . . items for sale. Things with the girls' pictures on them. Things with _Clarke's_ picture on them. "What the hell's all this?" he demanded.

"Merchandise," Murphy replied. "Anya's new money-maker. We got the Grounder Girls calendar, Grounder Girls mugs, coasters, and I hear there's a throw blanket coming."

Grunting incredulously, Bellamy picked up one of the calendars. "You gotta be kidding me." One of Clarke's pictures from the scantily-clad photo shoot was the picture for the month of January. She and Harper together were June.

"Are you gonna get one?" Murphy asked him.

"No, I'm not gonna get one." Not only did he see these girls all the time, but he wasn't gonna contribute any money to this. It was objectifying as fuck. They were literally selling Clarke _objects_ now.

"I might get one," his friend mumbled.

Bellamy set the calendar down, not at all surprised to see that most of the merchandise on display was for Harper and Clarke. There were a few things for the other girls, too, but they weren't the big money-makers. They didn't get pimped out in the same way.

"Bellamy."

When he heard Anya behind him, he turned around, his lips drawn tight in anger.

"I see you've noticed our new products."

"Yeah. Hard not to," he grumbled.

"Go ahead and familiarize yourself with the prices," she told him. "We'll start selling them tonight."

He shook his head, wishing he could put up more of a fight about this, wishing he had the power to put a stop to it. "This is so . . . this is so fucked up," he told her bluntly.

"Excuse me?"

Maybe it was a bad idea to challenge his boss, but right now, he didn't fucking care. Someone around there had to do it. "Didn't you learn anything with Ontari?" he spat accusatorily. "You promote a girl too much, and she ends up goin' down the wrong path. You really want that to happen again, with Clarke this time?"

Anya never was one to show much in the way of emotion, but he noticed her shudder slightly when he brought Ontari up. "We're being more careful with her," she said.

"Are we?" If anything, it seemed to him that the club was promoting Clarke even _more_ than Ontari. The mugs, the calendars, the coasters . . . it was taking the whole idea of branding way too far. Clarke was a person, not a product. She wasn't for fucking sale.

"Bellamy, all of this stuff . . ." Anya motioned to the vast array of items behind him, then lowered her voice as she revealed, "It was her idea."

He frowned, wrapping his mind around that. Her idea? As in . . . _Clarke's_ idea? She'd been the one to suggest all this?

He looked back up at the stage, where she was still twirling around that pole, way too good for someone who had only been doing this a few months. He shook his head, disappointed in her, in Anya, and in this whole place. This whole city, in fact. Nobody here really gave a damn about anyone.

Clarke left prior to nightfall, and he followed her out, feeling like he needed to talk to her before she left. He caught up with her before she got to her car and said, "So . . . merch, huh?"

She stopped on the sidewalk, slowly turning around. "What're you talking about?"

Oh, like she didn't know. "The calendars, the mugs, everything . . . you came up with that?"

She shrugged nonchalantly. "I mentioned it to Anya. People go crazy for that sort of thing."

"You really like the thought of guys all over this town having your picture up on their walls, gettin' trigger happy to the sight of you?"

She snorted. "They can get 'trigger happy' with or without a calendar."

Well . . . she had him there. Case in point . . . he thought back to last night, how he'd laid in bed and jacked off to thoughts of her. He wasn't exactly any better than these other guys who were into her.

"Look, it'll be a good money-maker for the club," she said. "And for all of us girls. We get a percentage of the profits."

"A small percentage, right?" he guessed. The majority of the money they made would always come from the dancing.

"It's better than nothing," she said.

"Jesus, Clarke." He hated that, hated the sound of it, hated hearing her say it.

"No, don't even start," she snapped. "You _always_ do this."

"Do what?"

"Act all exasperated with me."

"Because you're exasperating!" he shouted.

"Well, why is it always _my_ decisions that are the questionable ones, huh?" she challenged, throwing her hands in the air frustratedly. "Why is it that everything _I_ do gets put under the microscope?"

"If your decisions weren't questionable, you would've been honest with your friends," he pointed out. "You would've told 'em what you've been doing for a living. But you didn't. Now why is that?"

She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Okay, but it still isn't fair. You spend _so much_ time questioning my choices, when really, yours are pretty damn questionable, too, don't you think?"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. You don't even sleep with anyone who really matters to you. Sex is totally just a commodity to you. You either use it to advance your career or stave off boredom, but _never_ to pursue anything serious. I mean, half the girls you sleep with, you don't even like, and the other half you probably aren't even attracted to."

"How would you know?"

"Because I saw you with Gina last night!" she screeched.

"I didn't end up sleeping with her."

"Yeah, but . . ." She stopped, looking surprised to hear that. "You didn't?"

"No." And he was glad he hadn't, because as guilty as he felt about rubbing one out while thinking of Clarke, he would have felt ten times guiltier if he'd slept with Gina while thinking about her. "I let her down easy," he said, but upon recalling the hurt look in her eyes, he mumbled, "Or tried to."

"Oh." She looked down at the sidewalk, then back up at him, then away again. She slinked over to her car and sat down on the hood, sighing heavily.

He went and sat down beside her, acknowledging, "Look, I know I don't always make the best decisions, either." He smoked, although at least he had quit. He had way too much casual sex for his own good, though he'd cut back on that, too. But that didn't mean he had everything in his life figured out, either. "And I know I can be a hypocrite," he went on to admit. "But don't ever expect me to stop worrying about you, 'cause it's not gonna happen."

As was usually the case when they argued about something, she gradually seemed to be calming down, and he felt himself getting calmer, too. Sure, he was still pissed about all those items behind the counter, but . . . she still hadn't become Ontari. She was still . . . innocent.

"So why didn't you sleep with her?" she asked him suddenly.

 _Because I'd rather sleep with you,_ he thought. But no way was he gonna say that. "Wasn't feelin' it," he replied vaguely.

"Why not?"

He wondered if he would have done it had Clarke never entered the picture. Maybe if he didn't know her, Gina _would_ be the kind of girl he'd even be willing to date for a while. Probably not, but . . . he would have at least hooked up with her. "She's a nice enough girl," he said, "but . . ." Trailing off, he shrugged. "She doesn't excite me."

Clarke waited a moment before suggesting, "Then maybe you should find someone who does."

He looked over at her, meeting her eyes again just like he had when she'd been practicing up on that stage. And just one look . . . to him, it felt electric. And that was the problem, wasn't it? He'd already found someone who excited him. She was sitting right next to him.

...

Bellamy dreaded his next rehearsal with Gina. This play was basically just the two of them up on stage the entire time. There were a few other minor parts here and there, but they were very, _very_ minor. The majority of the scenes hinged completely on his connection with Gina, and despite all his efforts to put their failed hook-up behind him, the connection . . . it was strained.

"Cut! Cut!" Shumway shouted, waving his hands about dramatically as he approached the stage. "What's going on here? Something's off."

Oh, it was _definitely_ off. Gina was mumbling her way through most of the lines, and she practically refused to make eye contact with him.

"Sweetheart, give me a different expression," Shumway implored her. "You look like your dog died."

"Sorry," she apologized meekly, "I've been a little under the weather lately. I think I'm getting sick."

"Well, let's just call it a wrap for today then," Shumway declared. "No need getting him sick, too." Groaning in annoyance, he mumbled, "Actors" as he stormed off.

Gina slid down off the stage, gathering up her supplies, and Bellamy hopped down after her, attempting to make some casual and friendly conversation when he asked her, "So what're you doin' for Thanksgiving?"

"Going home for a meal with my family," she answered, "then coming back here to work on Black Friday."

He faintly recalled that she said she worked retail to make ends meet, so he imagined that would be one hell of a busy day at work. "That'll be hectic," he said empathetically. Luckily, the club wouldn't be open that day.

She didn't say anything else, still didn't look at him as she put on her coat, hat, and gloves. It was like she didn't even want to be around him at all, and he couldn't really blame her for that.

"Look, Gina . . . I'm really sorry about last night," he apologized again, feeling like he owed her more than that. "I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea."

"Then you probably shouldn't have brought me back to your place," she ground out. "Seriously, Bellamy, I thought you were a better guy than that."

"I am," he insisted. Although lately, he didn't feel too good. "I'm trying to be."

"Whatever," she grunted, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She started to leave, but she'd only taken a few steps when she turned back around. "Did you tell Clarke how you feel about her?" she asked.

Of everything she could have said to him or asked him, he hadn't expected that. "No," he answered.

"Well, you might wanna do that soon," she suggested. "If her boyfriend proposes to her, then you're really up a creek without a paddle." Spinning on her heel, she walked off, leaving him pondering _that_ horrific possibility. Finn proposing to Clarke? It didn't seem likely, but if it happened . . . shit, she'd probably say yes. For whatever reason, she loved that guy.

...

Saying goodbye to her friends had been hard, but Clarke knew they had to get home for Thanksgiving. They had families, actual functional families with parents who were still married and hadn't been hiding a scandalous gay secret their entire lives. Finn stuck around a few more days, but then it was time for him to head home, too. And Clarke _really_ dreaded seeing him go, even though he'd be back. She'd never spent a day in this city on her own, without him, and she really wasn't looking forward to it.

As they stood out at the car, she asked, "Are you just gonna drive straight through?"

"Pretty much," Finn replied with a shrug.

"Well, stop and rest if you need to, if you get tired," she told him, hating the thought of him on the open road all by himself with no one to help keep him awake.

"I'll be fine," he assured her. "You know me. I like driving."

"It's a long drive, though," she cautioned. "And you're making it alone." Maybe he should have left yesterday so he could have stopped at a hotel overnight.

"Well, you could still come with me," he pointed out.

Sliding her hands down the back pockets of her jeans, she shook her head. "No, I . . . I can't." Spending Thanksgiving alone here was better than spending it there. In Arkadia, she'd be so paranoid about people seeing her and gossiping about her that she wouldn't even leave the house. Pushing the faraway idea out of her mind, she said, "Okay, let's review: What are you not allowed to tell my parents?"

"Where we live, where you work, that you avoid their phone calls sometimes," Finn answered obediently. "Anything else?"

"I don't think so. Oh, you might wanna make it sound like our apartment's a lot nicer and a lot bigger than it actually is, though," she added. "And make our neighborhood seem really wholesome and safe."

"Got it." Finn smiled, brushing her hair away from her face. "I'm gonna miss you, Princess."

"I'm gonna miss you, too," she admitted, hoping his time away would go fast. "I understand why you wanna go home, though. Part of me . . ." She _really_ didn't want to admit it, but she longed for the Thanksgiving she'd had last year, a big family meal with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in attendance. Her family was too fractured to do that this year. "I _do_ miss them, sometimes," she confessed quietly. "You can tell them that."

Finn nodded, then bent down and kissed her cheek. "Be safe, okay? I love you."

"I love you, too," she said. "Call me when you get there, okay?"

He nodded, getting in the car. She tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her hands and stepped back onto the sidewalk, watching him as he backed out of the parking space and drove away. She watched until he turned the corner at the intersection, disappearing from her sight.

It took a while that evening for it to sink in that she was really _alone_. Since it wasn't unusual for Finn to work late, she was used to eating dinner by herself, getting ready for bed by herself, even crawling _into_ bed by herself sometimes. But when she woke up, Finn was almost always there beside her, unless he had to get a really early start on the day or something. But waking up the next day on Thanksgiving was different, because his side of the bed was still empty, still unslept in. She just lay there for a while, not exactly sure what she was even going to do with her day. Without a car, it wasn't like she could go anywhere, unless she wanted to try out the subway. And not every place was going to be open anyway. She felt confined to her apartment.

She checked her phone and saw that Finn had texted her a couple times—hopefully not while he was driving. He was making good time, he said, and would probably make it to Arkadia by noon. His family was having their Thanksgiving meal that afternoon, so he'd time it just right.

After sending a couple _Happy Thanksgiving!_ texts to Maya, Jasper, and Monty, Clarke got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and got ready for the day. She didn't bother washing her hair, and makeup wasn't a priority, either. She yawned her way through breakfast, and when she dropped a crumb of toast onto the floor, she called, "Wilma!" and the mouse came scurrying out of its hole to gobble it up.

Yep. It was just her and the mouse this Thanksgiving. And the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV. And the Purina National Dog Show after that.

She was bored. Not just lonely, but _bored_. It was bad enough that her Thanksgiving meal was going to be a turkey pot pie, but was she really going to eat it by herself? While watching TV? All day long? It seemed like such a waste.

She managed to make it through the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade before she got up and headed over to Bellamy's. She wasn't sure if he was home or not, but then again, where else would he be? He didn't have his family here for the holidays, either. And it wasn't like he'd be working since the club closed down for a few days. _Maybe_ he'd have rehearsal, but honestly, what kind of tyrant would schedule rehearsal on Thanksgiving? More than likely, he was home, just as alone and bored as she was.

He came and opened the door a few seconds after she knocked on it, and he looked a bit surprised to see her standing there.

"Hey," she said, looking down at her feet. God, this was embarrassing. She was willing to beg him to hang out with her today if she had to. She just didn't wanna be alone.

"Hey," he returned. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Yeah." It hadn't been the happiest one so far. She peeked into his apartment, noting the small turkey on the counter. "Are you gonna make a meal?" she asked.

"No, not really," he replied.

"Just the turkey then?"

"Yeah." He made a face. "Or it might be a duck. I'm not sure."

She laughed a little, picturing the scene from _A Christmas Story_ where the waiter cut off the duck's head. "Do you maybe wanna make it together?" she asked sheepishly. Turkey or duck . . . she was down for whichever.

A gradual smile spread across Bellamy's face.

Bellamy was slightly more adept in the kitchen than Clarke was, and for that, she was grateful. When it came to preparing the turkey/duck thing, she was clueless where to even begin. But Bellamy knew what he was doing. He took out everything that needed to be taken out and kept in everything that needed to remain. He buttered it up real good and slid it in the oven, vowing to monitor it closely while it was cooking. He made some Stove Top stuffing, too, which Clarke had always thought was better than most homemade stuff. And he said he had some rolls that would be really good once they warmed them up in the microwave. It wouldn't be a bad Thanksgiving meal once it was done, really. No green bean casserole like her dad used to make or mashed potatoes or anything like that, but . . . it was something. _Way_ better than the turkey pot pie in her freezer.

Bellamy definitely did _not_ watch the Purina National Dog Show on Thanksgiving, which was fine by Clarke. Although she didn't have much interest in the NFL games he wanted to watch, either. So she sat there with her sketchbook and drew while he watched the Vikings duke it out against the Lions, then continued to sketch during the beginning of the Chargers/Cowboys game. It was kind of funny to listen to him shout at the TV and argue with the refs, even though they couldn't hear him. He didn't seem to have any allegiance to any of the teams, just wanted to watch some entertaining games. One game was close, and one was a blowout, so during halftime of the second one, he suggested they take a break from the TV and eat.

So they sat at his small table, stuffing their faces and talking about what Finn and Octavia were probably doing right now. She told him about how Finn's family loved to do the whole Black Friday shopping thing, so they'd probably head out to Best Buy that night and get in line. She'd gone with them last year and been completely miserable, mostly because it'd been below freezing and they'd had to stand in line for hours.

"Octavia's with Ilian," he said as he helped himself to another roll. "His family owns a sheep farm. Real wholesome shit."

"I'll bet." She knew plenty of farm kids back in Kansas, most of whom had a decent amount of money. Rich farmers. It was a thing.

"I'm actually glad she's with him today," Bellamy went on as he spread some butter on his roll. "She deserves to do the whole family thing, you know?"

"Yeah." She looked down at her plate, comparing the look of this meal to the one she'd had last year. It wasn't the same, but . . . at least it wasn't bad, either. "What about your mom?" she asked him. "What's she doing?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? Working, probably."

"Where?"

"Wherever she works now."

Clarke nodded mutely, taking that to mean the woman was often between jobs. That had to suck. But anything had to be better than prostitution, so . . .

She stayed later than she'd intended, only because some college football game came on that evening. Two Texas teams she couldn't have cared less about, but Bellamy was vehemently opposed to rooting for either of them. He wanted to see them both play like crap and cheered any time either team threw an interception or fumbled the ball. He boasted a lot about how the LSU Tigers would have crushed either one of them, but Clarke wasn't sure about that. Wasn't LSU pretty bad these days, too?

At the end of the fourth quarter of that game, when it was already glaringly apparent which team would win, Bellamy's phone rang, and he got up from the couch to take the call. He didn't say who was calling, but Clarke had a feeling it was his mom. The tone of his voice when he said, "Hey," as he ventured out onto his balcony . . . it was a different tone than she'd ever heard before.

She didn't want to eavesdrop or even feel tempted to eavesdrop, so she went into the bathroom for a few minutes, taking a moment while she was in there to make her messy ponytail slightly less messy. When she came out, Bellamy was still on his balcony, still talking on the phone. Unable to deny her curiosity, she ventured closer to the sliding glass door and leaned against the curtain-covered side of it, listening intently. _Totally_ eavesdropping.

"Yeah, I've been takin' it easy," he was saying. "How about you?"

 _Typical Bellamy,_ she thought, smiling. Always more concerned with others than himself.

"Just take it easy tomorrow then," he said. A slight pause later, he grumbled, "You're kidding me. You're workin' tomorrow, too?"

 _God, that's awful,_ Clarke thought. Working a holiday _and_ the day after? That just wasn't even fair.

"Well, hang in there," he said. "I'm really glad you're still . . . okay. You know?" His smile was practically audible when he added, "I'm really proud of you, Mom."

Clarke smiled, finding all of this to be sort of . . . heartwarming. Way more heartwarming than any of her conversations with her mother had been this past year.

When he said goodbye, Clarke tried to scamper away from the door, but she didn't make it far. She plopped down on his bed as he came back in and tried to act like she'd been doing . . . something. But it had to be wicked obvious that she'd been listening.

"That was my mom," he said, pocketing his phone.

"Yeah, I . . . I figured." She took one of the pillows off his bed and hugged it to her stomach. "Did you know she was gonna call?"

He grunted, ambling towards the bed. "I never know when she's gonna call." Sitting down next to her, he sighed. "We don't talk very much."

 _Something we have in common,_ she thought solemnly. Although Bellamy probably would have _liked_ to talk to his mother more than he did.

"I think it's pretty amazing that you still love her," she said, "after everything she put you through."

"Well, she's my mom," he said simply.

"Yeah, but . . . you don't _have_ to love her." She couldn't even imagine seeing everything that he'd seen growing up, knowing what she was doing and just having to live with it.

"I forgive her," he said. "I won't forget any of it, but . . . I can forgive her for all of it."

Clarke tilted her head to the side curiously. "How?" Here her mom was just getting _married_ to another man, and she didn't feel like she'd ever be able to get past it.

"This is the woman who gave me life," he pointed out. "And she didn't have to. Especially not . . ." He lowered his head, almost as if she were ashamed. "Especially not considering how it all happened."

She stared at him sympathetically, feeling her heart go out to him. She couldn't even imagine living with the knowledge, the _burden_ , that you were . . . a child of rape, basically. Not unplanned, not an accident, but a violation. It had to be horrible.

"I miss my family sometimes," Clarke blurted, not sure why the words even came out. It wasn't that she was trying to take the attention off of Bellamy or just sit there and talk about herself, but . . . hearing him talk about his mom . . . it sort of inspired her to talk about hers. And her dad. Maybe.

"I'm sure they miss you," he said.

"You're sure?" she said teasingly. "What makes you so sure?"

"Well . . ." He rolled his eyes, sort of halfway smiling, and mumbled, " _I'd_ miss you if you . . . just up and left."

"Really?" Wouldn't his life have been a whole lot easier, though, without having to constantly worry about what she was up to?

"Yeah, really," he muttered, shaking his head. "Dammit, Clarke."

She laughed a little, angling herself towards him, but then grew serious again. "I _really_ miss them today," she confessed. "I'm trying not to, but . . . I can't help myself."

"Did they call?" he asked.

She shook her head, wondering what that meant. Were they waiting for _her_ to call them? Was her mom just so busy with Kane and her dad so busy with Jaha that they didn't even remember her? Maybe they'd still call later, but . . . maybe not. And maybe she should have been glad about that. This was what she'd wanted, after all, wasn't it? Space? Time and space away from them?

"I'm sure they still miss you," Bellamy reassured her.

"Yeah." They probably did. To an extent. But they were busy creating new holiday traditions this year, and despite her absence and each other's absence, they probably felt like they had a lot to be thankful for.

And then there was Finn, who'd texted her hours ago that he was home and that his parents wanted him to tell her hi. They were probably all putting up their Christmas tree by now, because that was what they did before they went Black Friday shopping. Maya and Jasper were probably on their second Thanksgiving at his place, having done an earlier one with her family. And Monty was undoubtedly with his family, feeling _very_ thankful that he'd come to New York and met Harper.

"Bellamy?" she said quietly, looking right at him, grateful, in that moment, for just his presence. "I'm thankful I'm not alone today."

He smiled at her, eyes locked onto hers. "So am I."

She smiled back, glad that she was enough to keep him from feeling lonely today, too. Nobody deserved to feel lonely on the holidays. Especially not a guy like Bellamy Blake.

...

Something felt . . . different when Clarke woke up the next morning. _Really_ different. The sun wasn't peeking in through the windows at the same angle, and the pillow beneath her head didn't feel like her own. In fact, the whole _bed_ felt foreign to her, and when she opened her eyes, she quickly realized why.

It wasn't her bed. It was Bellamy's bed. She'd fall asleep there last night.

Slowly, she sat up, trying to remember how this had happened. She must have just laid down for a few minutes, maybe to 'rest her eyes' or something, and nodded off.

Rubbing her tired eyes, she caught sight of Bellamy's feet dangling off the end of the couch. And she heard him snoring lightly.

 _Well, at least we didn't share the bed again,_ she thought. That probably hadn't been the best thing to do at the hotel. But it wasn't like anything had _happened,_ either. Still, it was nice of Bellamy to let her have the bed all to himself, especially since it was _his_ bed.

She got up and treaded over to him, pushing aside the video game controller on his coffee table so she could sit down. "Bellamy," she said. "Bellamy?"

"Hmm?" he groaned as he began to stir.

"It's morning," she told him, amazed that she'd spent so much time over there yesterday. "Sorry I fell asleep."

"It's okay," he said, stretching a bit. "I got a good couch."

It _was_ a good couch, at least in terms of comfort, but it was way too small for him to sleep on. "You could've told me to leave," she said, feeling bad. That had to have been one hell of an uncomfortable night for him.

"Nah, I wasn't gonna do that," he said, smiling at her groggily.

 _Of course you weren't,_ she thought. This was the same guy who'd volunteered to sleep on the floor when they'd gotten that hotel room. Bellamy was . . . kind of an old-school gentleman, in his own unique way.

"Well, I should probably go home now," she said. "Take a shower, change clothes." God only knew what she looked like right now. She hadn't shown up looking the best to begin with.

Apparently he didn't care how awful she looked, though, because he yawned and asked, "You wanna hang out some more today?"

Did she wanna hang out? And not have to spend the day alone, pretending she actually had something interesting to do when, in reality, she had nothing? "Sure," she said, purposefully downplaying her relief that he wasn't sick of her company yet. "What do you wanna do?"

Somehow, even though she hated it, Clarke let Bellamy convince her to hit the stores that day. She'd expected Walmart, because when anybody needed anything affordable back in Kansas, they went to Walmart. But apparently New York just didn't _do_ Walmarts, because they ended up at Target instead. It was a bigger Target than any one she'd ever been in before, and it was crowded as fuck. Just finding a place to park was a nightmare, but thankfully Bellamy was driving.

"Ugh, I hate Black Friday shopping," she complained as they squeezed through throngs of people.

"I know," he agreed, "but you can't beat the deals."

Was it really worth it, though? The closer they got to the tech section, the more she doubted it. There were people literally _running_ through the aisles, and everything was getting picked over.

"Look at this," Bellamy said, stopping to pick up a small laptop. "Touch-screen Chromebook, marked down a hundred dollars."

"Yeah, it's a good deal, but I just hate these crowds," she lamented. "Everybody's so pushy and rude." As if to prove her point, a middle-aged woman shoved past her without even saying excuse me. It was as if everyone had just forgotten their manners, if they'd ever had any to begin with. "Maybe we should divide and conquer," she proposed, thinking that might mean they could get out of there faster. "What're you looking for again?"

"An iPad for my mom," he said, browsing all the gadgets on display. "She doesn't have a computer or a smart phone, so . . ." He shrugged.

 _Pretty nice Christmas present,_ she thought. And even with the Black Friday deals taken into account, Bellamy probably didn't have the money for it. But maybe he'd saved up or something. She supposed it wasn't her place to judge how much money he decided to spend on his mom.

"And Octavia wants this Beats Bluetooth speaker," he added. "It's supposed to be marked way down."

"I can go find that," she offered.

"Alright, thanks."

Leaving him to linger around the iPads and all their accessories, Clarke ventured further into the tech displays, searching for this speaker. It wasn't like this was Best Buy or anything, so there weren't a multitude to choose from. Was Bellamy sure this store even had what Octavia wanted? Had he checked?

Somehow, as if by magic, the crowd in front of her dispersed, and Clarke caught sight of exactly what she was looking for. There it was, an oval black speaker with the signature lowercase b on the front. And Bellamy was right in that it was marked way down. Still a little bit pricey for a damn speaker, but if it was what Octavia wanted, she'd get it. Bellamy totally spoiled his little sister.

There was only one speaker left, and it was one of the smaller ones. She picked up the box, figuring the sound quality would still be good just because of the brand. But just as she was looking through all the product information listed on the box, some guy she didn't even know came by and swiped it right out of her hand.

"Hey! What're you doing?" she yelped, outraged.

"Gettin' what I want." He smirked and started to walk off.

 _Oh, hell no,_ she thought, determined to get that back. This _loser_ didn't intimidate her in the slightest. "I had that," she growled, storming after him. "I had it in my _hand._ You just took it from me."

"Yeah, so?"

She jumped in front of him, halting his rapid forward progress. "No, hold up. That's mine. Give it back."

Another guy who looked as loser-ish as the first—seriously, why did some men still wear their pants around their knees?—strolled up and grunted, "Who's this bitch?"

"Somebody who's about to get her speaker back," she ground out, ignoring the derogatory term. "Just give it to me."

The two friends laughed, and the one with the speaker in his hand said, "Oh, I'll give it to you. I'll give it to you all night long."

"Funny. Were you born this big of a pain in the ass?"

"No. But speaking of asses . . ." He tilted his head to the side, peering down at hers. "Yours looks pretty nice."

His friend licked his lips and said, "Bet you're just waitin' for somebody to tap that."

Ew, they were _so gross_ , and they thought they were being cool. "Actually, I'm waiting for my speaker," she said, not backing down.

Before they could say some other stupid thing, a loud, gruff, "Hey!" boomed as Bellamy marched towards them. "What the hell's goin' on?"

Both of the guys took a step back, but the thieving one didn't _hold_ back when he snorted, "This your bitch?"

"She's nobody's bitch," Bellamy shot back.

"That's the last speaker," Clarke informed him. "I had it, he took it. Now he won't give it back."

"Shut the fuck up, whore!" the guy snapped.

"What'd you call her?" Bellamy bellowed, hands curling into fists as he stepped forward.

"No, Bellamy, relax," she said, putting one hand on his chest, trying to get him to back up a bit. It didn't really matter, though. This other idiot wouldn't shut up, and things were clearly escalating.

"You heard me. She's a whore."

Of all the words for anyone to call her . . . that was probably the one that would piss Bellamy off the most.

"You think you can call her that?" he roared.

The guy shrugged. "I think if I give her some dick, she might shut the fuck up."

That did it. Both of Bellamy's hands shot outward, shoving the man. He stumbled backward against a bin of cheap DVDs for sale, and the box fell from his hand. He and his friend quickly retaliated, though, both of them trying to take a swing at Bellamy. Neither one of them hit him very hard, but they _did_ hit him. Two against one wasn't very good odds, so Clarke quickly bent down and seized the speaker off the floor. "Bellamy, come on!" she yelled, taking off.

She heard a _thwack,_ like he'd landed a punch on one of them, and seconds later, his racing footsteps joined hers. "Hurry, run!" he said.

She darted down aisles and around corners, effectively running in a maze, trying to lose both of their pursuers without losing Bellamy. He stayed right behind her, but she heard the other two guys not too far behind, yelling and taunting them, promising they were going to kick his ass and fuck hers. Such charmers. Luckily for her and Bellamy, though, they were _slow_ charmers, and it wasn't too hard to lose them.

Somehow, they'd ended up in the toy section of the store, and she spotted a perfect hiding spot. "In here, in here!" she said, ducking into a princess playhouse. A castle, the kind dads put up in the back yard for their daughters. She used to have one.

"Shit," he swore, struggling to squeeze through the tiny door. "I hardly even fit in here."

She pulled the door shut and said, "Shh," as she heard the two guys approach. They were asking each other what way they'd gone, _still_ promising to kick their asses, and finally, one of them said, "Fuck this," and their voices faded as they headed on their way.

 _Freaking Black Friday,_ Clarke thought, shaking her head in disbelief. Seriously, all of this over a damn _speaker_?

"Is this your place?" Bellamy asked her.

"Hardly," she said, laughing a little. As far as castles went, though, it was pretty cool, _definitely_ something she would have spent hours playing make believe in back when she'd been a little girl. "I got the speaker," she told him, handing it over.

He grinned excitedly. "See? I told you some princesses were badass."

"Well, you were pretty badass, too," she acknowledged. Not that she was actively hoping for Bellamy to get in fist fights or anything, and not that she was some damsel in distress who needed a knight in shining armor to come rescue her at every turn, but seeing him get all protective and defend her was kind of hot.

"I'm not afraid of people like that," he said. "It's awful, though. I apologize on behalf of my gender."

"Guys aren't inherently bad, Bellamy," she pointed out. "Those were just . . . bad guys."

"Yeah, but I feel like that's the only type of guy you've met since you've been here."

"No. I've met you," she pointed out. He definitely wasn't bad.

"I'm not sayin' I'm, like, Prince Charming or anything," he said. "But I try to be decent."

"Well, you're a good guy," she assured him. "You defended my honor. Even though I can totally-"

"Take care of yourself, I know," he filled in. "But you shouldn't have to."

She smiled at him softly, appreciatively, not about to deny the fact that she really was grateful he'd seen what was happening and intervened.

"Are we really hiding out in a princess castle right now?" he asked, making a face.

"Yeah." It was . . . kind of pathetic.

Rolling his eyes, he said, "Come on, let's go," and nearly toppled the whole house over as he struggled to crawl out.

They snuck back to the tech section for his mom's iPad, then headed up to the checkout counter. After waiting in line for a ridiculous fifteen minutes, he finally was able to pay for what he needed.

"And there goes my entire bank account," he lamented as he stuck his debit card into the chip reader.

"Yeah," she said sympathetically. Even with her and Finn's joint income, money was still tight. So her parents definitely weren't getting very nice gifts this year. If she decided to even give them anything at all. She probably would. She'd break down and feel guilty and buy them something off of Amazon, maybe just an Amazon gift card if she wanted to keep it _really_ generic.

Bellamy had just removed his debit card and wrapped up the transaction when a loud, "Hey, motherfuckers!" resounded from a few aisles down.

"Oh, shit, let's go," Bellamy said, grabbing the sacks.

"Would you like to donate to the-" the cashier started in.

"Maybe next time. Thanks." Bellamy pushed on Clarke's shoulders, and together, they ran through the crowd, weaving and twisting, both of them trying to find the quickest way out of there. "Run, Clarke!" he said.

She couldn't help but laugh. Even though they were literally getting chased by two wannabe thug lifers right now, she didn't feel like she was in any real danger, not with him there. So in a weird way . . . it was kind of fun.

They ran out into the packed parking lot, narrowly missing getting hit by a car, and zig-zagged to the faraway lane where he'd parked his vehicle. "Get in, get in," he said, scrambling for the door.

She threw herself into the passenger's seat, and he started it up quickly. Thankfully, no one was parked in front of them anymore, so he was able to drive straight forward and get out of there, right as the two guys caught up with them. They slowed, eventually stopping, and Clarke looked back at them and flipped them off, giggling wildly.

"Woohoohoo!" she exclaimed as he turned out onto the street. "We are so awesome! They didn't stand a chance."

"Not with the way we run," he agreed.

"Seriously, I don't know what it was about that, but I feel so _alive_ right now!"

For a second, he grinned, and she suspected he felt the same. But then he got serious and said, "No, that was actually probably pretty stupid of us. You never know about people in this town."

"You never know about people in any town," she pointed out. Her middle school math teacher had seemed like a really stand-up guy until news of his DUI had shown up in the _Arkadia Journal Star._ The woman who worked at the Bison Pub had always seemed pretty normal until the police had busted the meth lab in her basement.

"You _really_ never know in New York City, though," he tried to emphasize.

"They were just jerks, Bellamy, not gangsters," she assured him. "Besides, you could've totally taken them. And I would've helped."

"What would you have done?" he asked her.

"A swift kick to the jingle bells comes to mind."

Even though he was of course the one to point out how reckless that may have just been, even he couldn't contain his chuckle when she said that. "That's the holiday spirit," he joked.

That night, feeling exhausted after all the shopping and running and barely stopping to eat lunch, she lay in bed, waiting for Finn to call. He'd said it would be 10:00 her time, which, by Finn's definition, meant 10:30. At 10:29, her phone rang, and she answered it already knowing it was him. "Hey."

"Hey, babe. How's it goin'?" he said.

"Good. You?"

"Pretty good," he replied. "Family says hi."

"Your family or mine?"

"Both."

"Hmm." What an amazingly heartfelt thing to say to the daughter they hadn't seen in months.

"I've only seen your parents a little bit," he said. "Your dad's busy with Jaha, and your mom's busy with Kane, so . . ."

She frowned, wondering what that meant? Busy, like celebrating the holiday, or busy like . . . _busy_? Either way, they'd been too busy to check in with her much at all yesterday.

"They both miss you, though," he said.

"Really?" She had her doubts about that. "Because neither one of them even called yesterday. They texted."

"Well, you don't answer their calls a lot of the time," he pointed out.

"So it's my fault?"

"No, I didn't say that." He paused for a moment, letting out a breath. "You know what? Just forget I said anything. Tell me what you've been doing. Anything interesting?"

Even though this talk of her parents had prompted the frown on her face, thinking about today made it go away. "No, not really," she said, deciding to downplay it, just because Finn wouldn't understand why being a badass princess was actually fun. He was too stuck on her being _just_ his princess. Which . . . was fine.

"Pretty mundane then, huh?" he assumed.

"Yeah." She could hear music coming from Bellamy's apartment as he tested out the speaker he would give to his sister next month, and the sound of it brought a smile to her face. "Pretty mundane."


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22_

Needing a break from the bar, Bellamy headed back into the rehearsal room, hoping to find Clarke there. But he found Harper instead, curled up in the corner with an open book in her lap. She was sitting under one of the throw blankets with her own bikini-clad picture on it.

"Don't you have to dance tonight?" he asked her.

Glancing at the clock, she replied, "In an hour. But right now I have to study. I have a feeling I'm gonna fall asleep right away when I get home."

Her dedication to her classes was pretty damn admirable, he had to admit. "Nice blanket," he muttered, sitting down beside her.

"It's a little narcissistic, I know," she acknowledged, "but . . . it's warm and comfy. You should get one."

He made a face. "One of yours?"

"Or Clarke's." She grinned.

"Yeah, I bet her boyfriend would love that."

Harper laughed a little. She hadn't been as blunt with him about his feelings for Clarke as Gina had been, but he could tell that she, too, knew he liked her. "Is Clarke's stuff selling well?" she asked him.

"Yeah." He hated how well it was selling, actually. Anya was already having to order more.

"Figured."

Yeah, so many of the guys who frequented that club were going home with Girl Next Door merchandise now, it sort of made him sick. "You know, I really don't get Anya," he complained. "She acts like she feels so bad about Ontari, yet here she is pushing out all this crap."

Harper closed her book and reminded him, "All this crap is extra money, Bellamy. She probably figures, if she can put more cash in our wallets in a safe, legal way, why not do it? It's better than having girls resort to the stuff Ontari did. Don't you think?"

"I guess," he grumbled. It wasn't enough, though. The percentage of profits the girls were seeing from their merchandise was minimal. If someone got desperate . . . they'd still end up like Ontari.

"Besides, how much trouble can Clarke get into with big, brave Bellamy Blake looking out for her?" Harper added almost teasingly. "You know, not all of us have that."

"No, but I hear you've got somebody."

"You mean Monty?" Blushing, she smiled. "Yeah, we're kind of doing the whole long distance thing. It's weird, but . . . I really like him. Just like you really like-"

"Don't say it," he cut in.

"Fine, I won't," she relented. "But she's getting ready if you wanna go see her. I don't think she's really feeling all that well, though."

He frowned. Not feeling well? Then all the more reason for him to go check up on her.

He slipped back into the dressing room, even though he wasn't technically allowed back there, and there were two other girls getting ready besides Clarke, Vivian and some chick whose name he couldn't quite remember. They both looked excited to see him. "Hey, Bellamy," Vivian said, and the other one gazed at him wantonly and said, "Ooh, _hey_ , Bellamy."

"Hey." He walked right past them and right up to Clarke, who was sitting at a makeup table, powdering her face. He gripped the back of the chair and leaned down behind her, making eye contact with her in the mirror. "How you feelin'?"

"I'm alright," she said, but her voice sounded scratchy and unconvincing. "You know you're not supposed to be back here, right?"

"I wanted to check up on you," he said, not really caring if he was breaking any rules. "Harper says you're sick."

"I woke up this morning with a sore throat, and I kind of have a fever," she told him. "So maybe you shouldn't get too close."

"I'll risk it." He smirked. "You sure you wanna dance tonight?"

She sighed, looking very _un_ sureas she claimed, "I'll be fine."

Would she, though? She looked tired as hell, and that usual gleam in her eyes just wasn't there tonight.

"You can give me a ride home, though, right?" she asked.

"Yeah. I'll see if we can cut out early." He squeezed her shoulder and said, "Hang in there."

"Thanks."

On his way out, Vivian stopped him and suggestively asked, "Can you give _me_ a ride, Bellamy?"

"Not the kind you're hoping for," he told her, easing past.

The bar was bustling when he got back out there, which wasn't a surprise. It was Saturday night, a Clarke and Harper double-header night. They were packing the club as full as Ontari used to. And that wasn't a good thing.

"Alright, gentlemen, let's kick things off," Anya said as she took the stage ten minutes later. "You know her, you love her, so please, welcome to the stage, our very own Girl Next Door!"

Roaring cheers and applause rang out as the music started. Clarke strode out onto the stage, and right away, he could tell that she was weak. She just _looked_ like she didn't feel well. None of her steps were as commanding and confident as they usually were. When she started to dance, she sort of had a dazed look on her face the whole time. She didn't spin around the pole a lot, and whenever she did, she kind of stumbled out of it. The guys in the crowd started to murmur ominously, like they weren't sure what was going on, like this wasn't the girl they'd shown up to see. Bellamy even heard a few guys at the bar asking what was going on, asking if it was the same girl.

She wasn't doing bad, but . . . she looked more like Roma up there than herself. Roma always looked like she was somewhere else, like she was having some sort of out-of-body experience to forget where she was and what she was doing. But one of Clarke's strengths was how _present_ she looked up on stage. She was always _right there_. But not tonight.

One particular spin seemed to have left her feeling a bit dizzy, because she had to hold onto the pole as she stepped out of it, and she looked a little wobbly. She shut her eyes for a moment, shaking her head, then opened them again and managed a smile for the crowd. She waved at them and retreated off the stage, having taken nothing off. There was no applause, only audible disappointment.

"What the hell was that?" one man at the bar asked. Next to him, another guy just shrugged.

"You got this?" Bellamy asked Murphy.

"Yeah," his friend replied.

Abandoning his duties, Bellamy headed backstage again, feeling like Clarke . . . needed him or something. He found her sitting in that same makeup chair, being fanned off by Harper, Vivian, and the other girl.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, unable to disguise his concern.

"She said she feels faint and weak," Harper told him.

"And dizzy," Vivian added. "And really sick."

"I just need to go home and get some rest," Clarke said, not even looking at him. It seemed like she could barely even keep her eyes open as she just sat there with her head hanging, shoulders slumped.

Bellamy knelt down in front of her and smoothed her hair back from her face. "Can you stand?" he asked her.

Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes meeting his, and nodded. He helped her up, and she stepped out of her heels. "Will you take me home?" she practically pleaded.

"Yeah, of course." He put his arm around her waist, helping her walk slowly, one step at a time.

Anya showed up back there just as they were about to leave the dressing room, asking, "What happened?"

"Nothing, I'm just . . . under the weather," Clarke answered hoarsely.

"I'm gonna take her home," Bellamy stated, leaving no room for debate. Just after he said that, she slumped against him, nearly collapsing, and he had to hold her up. "Whoa, Clarke."

"Is she okay?" Harper asked nervously.

"Clarke?" He tried to get her to look at him, but her head was on her shoulder, and didn't seem like she could lift it. "I don't know, she's pretty out of it. I think I should take her to the hospital," he decided.

"Sure, sure," Anya agreed. "I'll clock you out. Will you call me later and let me know how she's doing?"

"Me, too," Harper piped up.

"Yeah, sure." It was good that both of them were worried, but right now, he wasn't going to let anyone else take care of her. "Come on, Clarke," he said, practically carrying her. "I got you." She could barely even put one foot in front of the other, and each step sounded like agony as she moaned and continued to fall against him.

As he drove to the nearest hospital, he kept looking over at her, checking on her to see how she was doing. "Hey now, stay awake," he said whenever it looked like she was about to pass out.

"I'm so tired, Bellamy," she said, one word barely distinguishable from the next.

"You're gonna be fine, okay?" he assured her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. The hospital was close. Once he got her there, they'd figure out what was wrong with her. Maybe she was dehydrated or something.

By the time they got there, Clarke was so out of it that she couldn't even get out of the car. He knelt down in front of her and instructed, "Just put your arms around me, alright?"

Her arms seemed to weigh a hundred pounds to her as she struggled to loop them around his neck. That was all he needed, though. He wrapped one arm around her back, hooked the other under her knees, and hoisted her up and out of the car. She was feather-light in his arms, so he carried her quickly into the emergency room and yelled, "Hey, I need a doctor!"

Luckily, someone was able to check her out right away. No waiting. Bellamy stayed with her and kept hold of her hand while a doctor did a full examination. She managed to be coherent enough to answer questions about how she'd been feeling all day, and they gave her some fluids and medication and put her in a bed.

"She definitely has the flu," the doctor told him as they stepped out into the hallway to let her rest, "and a pretty severe strain of it, it seems. Luckily, you got her in early, so we can prescribe her medication. Hopefully we'll be able to get it under control in the next few days."

 _The flu,_ he registered. Definitely a bad deal, but it could have been something far worse. "So she's gonna be okay?" he asked, just to make sure.

"She'll be tired, won't feel like doing much of anything," the doctor said. "And I do wanna keep her here overnight, or at least until her fever dies down. With the proper rest and care, she'll recover, though. Will you be able to take care of her?"

This doctor probably thought he was her boyfriend, but right now, he had no problem acting like one. "Yeah," he said.

"Good."

"Can I go sit with her now?"

"Of course." The doctor opened the door to the room for him and said, "I'll check up on her later."

He nodded his thanks as he walked over to Clarke's bedside. They'd changed her into a hospital gown, which was a far cry from the outfit she'd been wearing up on stage tonight.

"Hey," she managed tiredly. "Do I have to stay?"

"Yeah." He pulled a chair up next to her bed and pointed out, "You have a 102.8 degree fever."

"It was only 100.1 when I left for work."

"Only," he grunted. Of course she'd gone anyway, though. Clarke was definitely the type of girl who wouldn't want to let something like a fever keep her down. "Looks like you're gonna be here for a while. You want me to call Finn?" he offered.

"No," she answered quickly. "He's at home with his family. I don't wanna worry him."

"Yeah, but I'm sure he'd wanna know-"

"No, Bellamy, it's fine," she cut him off. "Just please, just . . ." Her eyelids fell shut, and she moaned, "Just don't leave me."

He gazed at her sympathetically, wishing he was the one feeling so crappy and that she felt fine. Placing his hands atop hers, he rubbed her wrist softly with his thumb, silently assuring her that, no, he wouldn't leave. In fact, he wouldn't dream of it.

...

Even though her sleep hadn't exactly been sound, Clarke was just glad she'd gotten some sleep at all. She woke up still feeling like she was in rough shape, but she felt better than she had last night.

Upon opening her eyes, she remembered where she was. The hospital. In a hospital bed. In a hospital gown.

Her neck felt stiff as she turned her head to the side, but she wanted to see if Bellamy was still there. And indeed, he was. He was sitting in a chair, head tilted over to the right, hands folded on his lap, sleeping.

He'd stayed.

She tried to say his name, but her throat hurt so badly that she couldn't even get a word out. She rubbed it, wincing, and cleared her throat before trying again. "Bellamy?"

He must not have been sleeping very deeply, because he immediately stirred and woke up. "Hey," he said, smiling at her. "How you feelin'?"

Well, she still kind of felt like crap, but then again, she'd just woken up. Maybe she'd feel better as the day wore on. She settled for "Thirsty," feeling like she needed some water.

"Thirsty?" he echoed, making a confused face. "Right now?"

She nodded as best she could.

He made a face. "Oh, you mean . . . _thirsty_." He picked up a glass of water off the bedside tray and brought it to her lips, holding her head up in the back to help her drink. "Sorry," he apologized, "I thought you meant thirsty as in, you know, horny."

That made her laugh, and spit up a little water on herself.

"Sorry," he said again.

"Mmm." Just that one drink of water made her throat feel bearable again. "Thanks for staying," she told him, so grateful that he was there, that she wasn't alone right now. She still kind of felt like hell, probably looked like hell, too. But it was nice to know that he hadn't left her.

"Yeah, no problem," he said. "I'm gonna go get a doctor, alright?"

She nodded again, throat still too sore to say much, and closed her eyes again as he got up and left the room.

The doctor—who might or might not have been the same one as last night—checked her out, took her temperature, and happily declared that they'd gotten it down to 100.3. So while she was still feeling rough, she was nowhere near as feverish as she'd been last night up on that stage. She should expect to feel weak and lethargic for the next couple days, the doctor said, and she'd need to get lots of rest. He gave her a prescription for Tamiflu and told Bellamy to bring her back right away if she started getting worse instead of better.

She was able to walk out of the hospital, which had to have been an improvement since she was pretty sure Bellamy had carried her in there, and she stayed awake during the drive home. Thank God Bellamy lived right next door to her and it wasn't some huge inconvenience for him to haul her around. Even if she hadn't had the flu, she still didn't have a car right now since Finn had driven it home to Arkadia, and she had such an aversion to public transportation that a bus or subway just wasn't happening.

Bellamy was in total nurse mode when he set her up on the couch. He brought her pillow out there for her, covered her up with blankets, and brought out tissues and a wastebasket, along with a vast array of medicine. And a thermometer. He told her she had to take her temperature every couple hours, and if she resisted, he'd do it for her. He seemed more than willing to do other things for her, too, like making her chicken noodle soup for lunch, even though she wasn't particularly hungry. "You have to eat something," he said. So she downed half a bowl of chicken noodle soup, having to admit that it did feel good on her throat.

"You're gonna get sick if you stay," she cautioned him, feeling like she was still _very_ contagious.

"Ah, I'll be alright," he said nonchalantly, taking the remainder of the soup off her hands.

She wondered how often he'd done this when he'd been younger. Not _this_ , exactly, but . . . how many times had he probably taken care of his mother? If her drug problem was really as bad as he'd made it sound, she could only imagine how much he'd had to do for her. And he'd probably taken care of Octavia, too, a lot, especially if their mother hadn't been in a position to do so.

She slept _a lot_ that day. Fell asleep during the middle of one soap opera and woke up halfway through a different one. The only times she really got off the couch were when she had to go to the bathroom, which, due to the fluids Bellamy kept insisting she drink, were quiet frequent. At one point in the afternoon, she woke up to find him sitting in her desk chair, reading the first of the _Harry Potter_ books. When she woke up later that evening, he was already onto the second one.

Although she wasn't super hungry for dinner, a small bowl of ice cream kind of sounded good. Unfortunately, it didn't agree with her stomach, and she found herself in the bathroom about an hour after eating it, throwing up. Bellamy definitely didn't _have_ to come in, and in fact, she was sort of mortified at first when he did. But she quickly became grateful for it when he held her hair back for her. She felt like a drunk girl after a frat party, only even less attractive.

She was ready to move into the bedroom at 8:00 already, and of course Bellamy tucked her in. Like _literally_ tucked her in, made sure all the pillows were arranged just the way she wanted them and made sure she was wrapped up tight under all the covers. "Thank you," she told him. He'd been so amazing all day. If he ended up getting sick, too, as a result of all of this, she was going to feel horrible.

"I'll be right out there if you need me," he told her as he left the room, and even though she wanted to tell him that he could go home if he wanted to, that she'd be okay tonight . . . she didn't. Because it was comforting knowing that he was there.

...

At 8:30 in the morning, Clarke dragged herself out of bed. Not because she wanted to wake up, but because she had so much mucus draining down the back of her irritated throat, she could barely even breathe. She hacked up some stuff in the bathroom sink, grabbed the Kleenex, and trudged out into the main room, not at all surprised to find that Bellamy was _still_ there. He was pouring a glass of orange juice, probably for her. "Morning," he said.

"Morning," she echoed, having to clear her throat. It didn't hurt as badly as yesterday, but her voice was still scratchy.

"You look . . . better, actually," he remarked, putting the orange juice carton back in the fridge.

"I'm sure I still look gross." She sat down on the stool at the counter, feeling like she smelled gross, too. She hadn't showered at all yesterday, but she just hadn't even felt up to it. "But I feel more like an actual human being again, so that's good."

"Yep." He nodded in agreement. "Did you sleep?"

"Yeah, I was out." She yawned, feeling like, unbelievably enough, after sleeping through the majority of yesterday, she could _still_ sleep some more. The doctor had said that was what this year's flu did, though. It just wiped you out and zapped all your energy. "What about you?" she asked him. "Please don't tell me you laid out on this germ-infested couch all night."

"No, I mostly stayed up and read." He turned around when two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster, and he took them out and set them on a paper plate.

"I bet you're tired then," she said, wondering if he'd be on the third _Harry Potter_ book by now.

"I'm fine," he said with a shrug. He slapped some butter on the toast quickly and slid the plate across the counter towards her. "Alright, I know toast probably doesn't sound good on your throat right now, but it's a good thing to eat when you've had an upset stomach."

She smiled at him, feeling like . . . like she was in really good hands. "You've taken good care of me," she told him.

"I've tried," he said, downplaying it. But the truth was, he didn't have to be here. He could have left her to fend for herself yesterday, could've just stopped by once or twice to check in.

A knock on the door disrupted them, and he said, "I bet that's Harper," as he went to answer it.

When he opened the door, it was indeed Clarke's friend standing on the other side. "Hey, how's she feeling?" she asked, coming inside.

"Still kind of rough," Clarke answered. "But better."

Harper gave her a sympathetic look and walked into the kitchen, holding a yellow plastic sack in her hand. "I'd hug you right now, but are you still contagious?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't get too close," Clarke warned.

"Well, I just came by to deliver some more chicken noodle soup, per this guy's request here." Harper set the sack down on the counter and gave Bellamy a look. "Three cans, just like you wanted."

"Thanks," he said.

Even though she wasn't a particularly big soup fan, Clarke had to admit, the chicken noodle had hit the spot yesterday and had been much more agreeable on her stomach than the ice cream had been. So if that was all she ate today, then so be it.

"And how has Nurse Bellamy been," Harper asked, "on a scale of one to ten?"

"Hmm, I'd say he's a perfect ten," Clarke rated.

"Always have been," he boasted, grinning a little. "Nurse Bellamy's gotta head out today, though. I've got rehearsal."

"Oh, well, go ahead," she told him. "I'll be fine."

"I can hang out with her for a while, too," Harper offered.

"Alright. Just call me if you need anything, though." He grabbed his jacket off the dilapidated coat rack, stepped into his shoes, and promised, "I'll be back later."

"Bye," she said, waving weakly, sorry to see him go. Not that she doubted Nurse Harper's abilities or anything, but . . . Bellamy had been her constant companion for over twenty-four hours now.

"Wow," Harper said once he was gone.

"What?" She bit into one slice of toast, appreciating that it wasn't too crunchy and wouldn't hurt her throat that much.

"Nothing," she said, but her tone didn't make it _sound_ like nothing. "You guys are just . . . so couple-y."

Clarke made a face and denied, "No, we're not. He's just really been there for me."

"And what about your _actual_ boyfriend? Where's he?"

Clarke took another bite. "Back in Kansas."

"Shouldn't he be rushing back here since you're sick?" Harper crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head to the side almost . . . judgmentally.

"He doesn't know I'm sick," Clarke said. "Well, I talked to him, like, briefly this morning, told him I had a cold."

"But you have the flu," Harper pointed out.

"I know, but he doesn't need to know that. I want him to enjoy his time at home with his family, not be worrying about me."

"But It's his job to worry about you," Harper argued. "Although . . . Bellamy's been doing that job pretty well, don't you think?"

Clarke looked down at her toast just to avoid looking in her friend's eyes. Yeah, he had been. There was no denying that. Bellamy had worried about her before this flu, during it, and would undoubtedly continue to worry about her after. That was just . . . that was just Bellamy. It didn't mean anything.

...

"Alyssa, wait . . ." Bellamy felt like he said the line a bit too exaggeratedly, but Shumway didn't stop him. Gina turned to look at him with what was supposed to be a longing expression on her face, but it looked a little blank to him. Still, she did what the scene called for and ran to him, leaping into his arms. They'd practiced that a lot, so they had it by now. But then there was the kiss that was supposed to come right after it, and they both paused for a moment before letting their lips connect.

"Stop, stop, stop," Shumway said, sounding annoyed. "No hesitation. I want you to go straight into the lip-lock. Let's try it again."

Bellamy set Gina down on her own two feet again, and she sighed frustratedly. "Maybe we should rehearse the dialogue some more," she suggested. "I still think it sounds stilted."

"That's because you won't emote," Shumway snapped. "And he's distracted."

"What?" Bellamy said.

Shumway rolled his eyes. "Case in point . . ."

"No, I'm not distracted," he claimed. "I just . . ." Rubbing his forehead, he tried not to think about Clarke, tried not to wonder if she was overdoing it today or if she'd just curled up on the couch again to continue resting the way she needed to. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Did Clarke keep you up?" Gina mumbled agitatedly.

"Yes." He quickly realized what she meant and corrected, "No, not like that."

"We're trying the kiss again," Shumway declared loudly. "And you two are gonna keep kissing until it looks right. Got it?"

Well, this was gonna be one awkward as fuck rehearsal then, because Bellamy was pretty sure it was never going to look as good as the director wanted it to. "Got it," he said as Gina backed up to get a running start again.

...

Clarke felt comfy. She wasn't sure why she felt comfy, or even _how_ given the fact that she'd had a headache all day. But as her eyes slowly opened and she found herself on the couch . . . she figured it out.

She'd fallen asleep not with her head on a pillow, but on Bellamy's lap this time. They'd been sitting there watching TV, and they'd both been exhausted. She remembered leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder, but she didn't remember lying down.

Lifting her head, she looked up at him. He was sleeping, too, mouth slightly open, head tilted to the side. In that position, he couldn't have been even halfway as comfortable as she was, but . . . at least he was sleeping. That was more than he'd done last night.

She thought about getting up and heading into the bedroom, but she _really_ didn't have the energy to do that. And she didn't want to disturb him, either. So she lay her head back down, content to use his legs as a pillow, and when he sleepily reached down to rub her head . . . she just let him.

...

As Clarke started to get better, Bellamy reluctantly gave her a little more space. He knew he was likely to start annoying her if he kept reminding her to take her temperature every few hours or kept asking if she'd taken all her medication. He started to go home to sleep in his own bed, but he always checked on her in the morning. And he kept making her toast for breakfast, because it seemed to be agreeing with her.

"How have you not gotten sick yet?" she said as he buttered up two golden slices of bread.

"I got a flu shot," he fibbed.

"Shut up. No, you didn't."

"No, I didn't," he admitted. His thought process was, if he got the flu, he'd just fight it off. "But I don't get sick very easily."

"Well, consider yourself lucky."

"Trust me, I do." He'd just slid her toast across the counter to her when the front door opened. And in came . . . Finn.

"Guess who's back? Back again," he sang. "Your boyfriend's back. Tell a friend."

Bellamy made a face. Had that fool really just quoted Eminem's lyrics?

"Hey," Clarke said, forgetting about the toast as she got up off the stool. She walked over to her boyfriend and hugged him eagerly. "What're you doing back already?"

"I missed you," he said, setting his bag down, "wanted to surprise you."

"She's surprised," Bellamy muttered. So was he, actually. Clarke had told him Finn probably wouldn't be back for a few more days.

"Oh, no, don't kiss me," she said, leaning backward as he tried to plant one on her.

"Why? 'cause you're sick?" He rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you're not still contagious." Against her advice, he gave her a quick peck on the lips . . . and Bellamy had to look away. When Finn finally noticed him, all he said was, "Hey, Bellamy."

"Hey." Did this guy not even _question_ why he was over there right now? Did that not spark any sense of jealousy whatsoever? Because it really should have. "Don't mind me," he said, trying to ignore the way Finn was wrapping his arm around Clarke's waist, "I was just . . . sneaking breakfast."

"You been checkin' up on my girl?" Finn asked.

Oh, he'd been doing more than that, but he doubted Clarke wanted her boyfriend to know that. "Yeah, here and there," he said. "But you're back now, so . . . I guess I'll just be outta your hair." Just like that, he felt like he was no longer Clarke's caretaker. At least not technically. Not that she needed someone to take care of her anymore. It'd been a few days since she'd gotten sick, and while she still wasn't one-hundred percent better, she was definitely on the mend.

"See ya, man," Finn said.

"Bye, Bellamy," Clarke added quietly as he walked out the door.

He didn't say goodbye back to her, only because . . . he didn't want to. He would have gladly spent the day making her ingest more chicken noodle soup and spent the night out on the couch with her, her head pillowed on his lap. And even though he was scheduled to work tonight, he would have tried to find a way out of it just to keep her company. But now . . . work it was. Finn was back, so he didn't get to act like Clarke's boyfriend anymore.


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23_

A week after she'd fallen ill with the flu, Clarke still wasn't sure she was _completely_ better. She still tended to go to bed early, and she was coughing a lot at night. But her sore throat was no longer sore, and she could breathe through her nose again. And her appetite was back, along with some of her energy. So it was a major improvement.

She went to see Anya on Friday night, just to assure her that, yes, she was ready to get back to work and make up for her last lackluster performance. She sat down in her office with her and explained that, while the flu had definitely taken her out of the game for a few days, she was ready to get back to normal now.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Clarke," Anya said. "I was really worried about you last week."

"It was bad. I'm still kind of recovering," Clarke admitted.

"That's why I think it's best for you to perform again next weekend."

 _Next_ weekend? That seemed so far away. "But I was just gonna tell you I'm good to dance again tomorrow," she said. "I can do this weekend, I promise."

"Clarke." Anya folded her hands atop her desk, leaning forward a bit. "You can't help that you got sick. And I understand that. But some of your . . . your fans might not." She sighed. "There were a lot of questions after your last performance, a lot of confusion. Even some complaints. When you come back, you need to come back with a _bang_."

Clarke frowned. "So what does that mean?"

"It means I'm gonna give you a headline spot," her boss informed her. " _Next_ weekend. You're a proven draw at this point. If you dance, the crowds will come. There's no need for you to be opening for Harper anymore. Somebody else can open for you."

Clarke's eyes widened in surprise. She'd only been working here for a few months, but already, Anya was putting this much faith in her. "Wow." To be the primary girl responsible for packing the club on any given night . . . to say it was an _honor_ perhaps wasn't the right word, but it was definitely something she didn't take lightly. "I don't know what to say."

"You have a knack for this, Clarke, plain and simple," Anya told her. "But you _do_ still need to rebound from last week. So I'm gonna promote this performance for seven days straight, Luna's gonna put together some choreography, and you're gonna make enough money in one night to make up for this two-week hiatus. How's that sound?"

As long as she had the potential to make enough cash to get by, it sounded good to her. "Sounds like a plan," she declared, eager to see what kind of routine Luna would put together for her.

Anya did something she rarely ever did then. She smiled. "It's good to have you back."

Although stripping may not have been the ideal job for the rest of her life, it felt . . . kind of good to be back. Mostly because anything felt better than the flu.

As she strode back out into the club, a familiar, low voice rasped, "Well, well, well, look who it is."

She slowed to a stop, sort of wishing she'd just kept on walking. _Great. Roan._ Bellamy was right up there at the bar, busy right now, but probably not too busy for her. If she went and sat with him, Roan would likely leave her alone.

Unfortunately, since she'd made the mistake of stopping, it gave Roan a chance to come stand in front of her, his large, broad frame completely obscuring Bellamy from her vision. "I was beginning to wonder if you even worked here anymore," he said. "Where have you been?"

She certainly didn't owe him an explanation, so she wasn't about to give him one.

"You don't wanna talk to me? That's too bad," he said, shaking his head regretfully. "I heard you got sick. Is that true?"

Even though part of her wanted to just give him the silent treatment like an annoyed fifth grader would have, she couldn't resist getting a jab in there. "Maybe I was just sick of you."

Rather than deterring him, that remark made him smirk. "You're so stubborn. I like that about you." He tried to reach out to touch her hair, but she took a step backward. Slowly lowering his hand, he said, "You know, if you were sick, you should've let me know. I would've taken care of you."

She narrowed her eyes at him, repulsed by the mere offer. "I don't need you to take care of me, and I don't want you to take care of me," she snarled. "Not after the bang-up job you did with Ontari." Rolling her eyes, she pushed past him and made her way over to the bar, where Bellamy was now watching Roan closely.

...

 _Fucking Roan,_ Bellamy thought as Clarke approached. Would that guy ever go away? Why, out of all the girls who worked in that club, had he decided to fixate on Clarke now? Not that he wanted any of the girls to have to endure his harassment, but . . . Clarke was obviously the most important one to him.

"Did you talk to Anya?" he asked her as she sat down on one of the bar stools.

"Yeah. Next week. I'm headlining."

"Really?" That was just great. Even more of an excuse for Roan to lust after her.

"Yeah." She waited patiently as he poured her a club soda, then added, "It's kind of a big deal. You could say 'congratulations.'"

He shrugged flippantly, not about to do that. "I could." To him, it still wasn't a congratulatory thing, though. And even though he'd stand right at this bar with his mouth hanging open, trying not to get a hard-on while he watched her, he still wished she wouldn't get up there and dance at all.

Setting her drink in front of her, he changed the subject and asked, "Was Roan bothering you?"

She took a drink and then waved it off. "It was nothing."

He gave her a skeptical look. With Roan, it was never nothing.

"He's a Neanderthal; he's early man," she went on. "If I keep giving him the brush-off, maybe he'll finally get the hint."

Bellamy grunted. "Doubt it." If it hadn't worked so far, it wasn't going to work at all.

Clarke, of course, was never quite as concerned about it as he was. "Well, anyway, I'm gonna head home," she said. "I still need to rest." She took a big swig of what was left in her glass, downing about half of it.

"Is Finn . . . spending time with you?" he asked, not sure if he even wanted to know the answer. "Or is he right back to work?"

"No, he's spending time with me," she said.

 _First time for everything,_ Bellamy thought. That guy didn't realize how lucky he was to be with Clarke. He spent more time worrying about his job than he did worrying about her, and that wasn't right.

"But thank you," Clarke said softly, "for taking care of me while he was gone."

He knew it was a big deal for Clarke to say that since she was always so adamant that she could take care of herself. So he nodded a silent 'you're welcome' to her, hoping she knew that he wasn't going anywhere, not even now that Finn was back.

It was an even _bigger_ deal, though, when she leaned forward, across the bar, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Probably a totally platonic kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. He wasn't even sure she realized what she'd done, but . . . damn, he realized it. The slightest touch of her lips on his skin made his whole body feel electrified. He wanted to kiss her _for real_. So badly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Roan staring daggers at them, but in that moment, he didn't even fucking care.

Clarke left after finishing her club soda, which was fine. He didn't need her wandering around the club while he was trying to work. He focused on getting through the night, enjoyed Harper's performance since Harper was hot as hell, too, and got a few phone numbers from a couple girls who had been dragged there for the night with their boyfriends. He threw them away before he headed out, even though they were pretty hot girls, just because . . . he didn't feel like hooking up with them. Especially not after . . . not after tonight.

That one small kiss from Clarke was the only thing on his mind as he drove home. He felt like he was in junior high again or something, a kid with a crush. It was embarrassing and pathetic, but also kind of exhilarating. He couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop thinking about her. He thought about how it might happen again and began to wonder if she'd give him a real kiss next time. Maybe she'd do it without thinking about it, and then he could just kiss her back, deepen it, try to make her feel something with him that she didn't feel with Finn. Because there had to be so many feelings out there in the world that Clarke hadn't experienced yet. So many.

Smiling to himself, he got out of his car, in the middle of imagining a scenario where _he_ could kiss _her_ cheek. But something tore him out of that abruptly. He heard people running, and when he looked up, he saw two hooded guys dressed in all black charging at him. There was little he could do to defend himself as they grabbed him and slammed him back against his car. They each held one of his arms and started hitting him.

He yelled and struggled against them, trying to get his arms free, trying to kick them away. What the hell was this? Was he getting robbed? It didn't seem like it as they continued to whale on him. If they wanted what little money he had in his wallet, they would have just taken it and run off.

"Get the fuck off me!" he roared, managing to kick one of them away. With one hand free, he swung at the other guy, his fist colliding with his face, but he doubled over when he took a punch to the gut.

One guy grabbed his hair, yanking his head back, and the other swung at him _hard_ , hitting him square in the jaw. He tasted blood in his mouth as pain radiated through his body.

"You better fuckin' stay away," one of them growled, and just as quickly as they'd run up to him, they ran off through the parking lot, footsteps echoing as they went.

Spitting up blood, Bellamy hunched over and held his side. He hadn't been beaten up for years, and that hadn't compared to this. That had been an accident, but this . . . this was intentional. Those guys had been here, waiting for him to come home. They'd _targeted_ him. Because . . .

Because they wanted him to stay away.

He had a feeling he knew what they meant by that.

He dragged himself up to his apartment and locked the door, not really afraid so much as he was . . . just wounded. He needed to fix himself up so that, if they came back, he could take them this time. Two on one wasn't exactly a fair fight, but he knew how to defend himself if he had to. And he wasn't about to stay away from Clarke, so . . . he'd probably have to.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn't a good one. One eye was already swelling, and he had blood all over the cheek Clarke had just kissed tonight. His bottom lip was cut, and everything looked like it hurt. And it _did_. It wasn't pleasant admitting to himself that he'd just gotten his ass kicked, but . . . he'd just gotten his ass kicked.

He cleaned himself up, wrapped a bandage around his knuckles, and winced as he made his way to his bed. Lying down slowly, he grimaced as he twisted too much, because he felt a sharp pain in his side. Every breath felt like agony, which led him to suspect he may have a broken rib or two. Fantastic.

 _It won't feel as bad in the morning,_ he told himself, though he wasn't sure if that was true or not. If his body still hurt this bad when he woke up, he'd take some Tylenol or something else to relieve the pain. But he wasn't going to let this keep him from working or going to rehearsal or doing anything he normally did. Including spending time with Clarke.

Roan had sent those guys to beat him up, no doubt about that. He'd probably gotten pissed and jealous when he'd seen Clarke kiss him at the bar tonight. The guy had too much money and too many connections in this town. He could pay anyone to do anything for him, and although it was intimidating, Bellamy wasn't afraid. Not really. Better him than Clarke. He could handle himself.

As he lay there, trying to ignore the pain each breath brought, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, looking at the screen with the one eye that wasn't swelling shut, and saw a Snapchat from Octavia. She'd taken a pouting selfie in her room and captioned it with _I miss my big brother :(_

God, he missed her, too. He missed his sister, even missed his mom. In that moment, he missed his hometown in Louisiana so damn much. Because everyone knew everyone else there. It wasn't like bad things never happened there, because bad things happened everywhere. But _this_ didn't happen. People didn't hire other people to go beat someone up. People didn't try to intimidate him into staying away from the girl he liked. People didn't resort to violence to get what they wanted.

But here . . . that happened. And tonight, it'd happened to him.

...

Balancing a basket of laundry on her hip, Clarke pulled her door shut. Up ahead of her, she saw Bellamy walking down the hall like a man on a mission. Apparently he had somewhere he needed to be today. "Bellamy, hey," she called.

"Hey." He didn't stop walking and barely even looked over his shoulder at her. "Laundry day, huh?"

"Yeah." She scurried—as much as she _could_ scurry with a laundry basket in her arms—to catch up with him. "Hey, wait up. Where are you going?"

"Rehearsal," he answered glumly, heading down the stairs. "Again."

Struggling to keep up with him, she suggested, "Well, we should practice some more when you get home. I like pretending I'm an actress."

"Yeah, maybe." He didn't sound very enthused about that. And he was still walking so fast and barely even looking at her.

Something wasn't right.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, still trailing after him.

"Nothing, I'm just in a hurry."

"No, there's something . . ." She jumped in front of him once they stepped out into the first floor hallway, and even though he tried to look away, he couldn't hide the black eye on one side of his face. "Oh my god, what happened?" she gasped.

"It's nothing," he said, flinching when she reached out to touch him. "I just . . . I had to break up a bar fight last night, that's all."

"A bar fight?" She'd never actually witnessed one of those at Grounders so far.

"Yeah. Anyway . . . I gotta go. I'll see you later, Clarke."

He left without another word, before she could even ask another question, but something just . . . didn't seem right. If Bellamy was capable of _breaking up_ a bar fight, how had he been the one to end up with a black eye? And his lip was cut, too, and . . . he just didn't seem like himself today.

That afternoon, Luna called her in to rehearse. She abandoned the laundry, even though she was only through the first load, and went to the club to start perfecting the choreography for her headlining routine. Luna had chosen another Britney Spears song, this one a bit more sensual and less pop-sounding than the other ones, and she seemed excited to teach Clarke some new moves. One of the moves they started with was called a flare, and Clarke recognized it from what she'd seen in Olympic gymnastics competitions.

"Your outside leg comes in, draws a big circle, and the inside leg follows it," Luna said, hoisting herself up on the pole and demonstrating slowly.

"Like a fan kick," Clarke compared.

"More like a windmill. You really have to turn your hips inward." Luna continued to demonstrate, making it all look effortless.

"Something tells me it's not as easy as you make it look," Clarke said.

"Try it." Luna stepped aside and motioned to the pole.

"Okay." Clarke marked out the leg motions a few times, figuring she had the natural flexibility for it. But when she tried to jump up on the pole and flare her legs, she didn't have a strong enough grip to hold herself up. "Oh, okay, yeah, that's harder than it looks."

"You'll get it," Luna assured her. "It's a lot of arm strength, nice tight grip."

"Think I can get it by next weekend?" Clarke hesitated to ask.

"I'm sure you can. It'll just take some practice."

 _Just like everything else,_ she thought. There had been a time when the corkscrew turn had been kicking her ass, and now it was one of her favorite moves. This was technically easier than that, so she could get it. Lifting herself up again, Clarke tried to circle her legs the way Luna had, and even though she wasn't quite as graceful yet, she did technically execute the move this time.

"There, that one was better," Luna praised.

"Not as good as yours." Clarke hopped down and declared, "I need a break." Pole-dancing required a lot of core strength, so it wasn't uncommon for her stomach to break out in a sweat. It was gross.

Sliding off the stage, she grabbed her water bottle off the floor and took a generous drink. "So what happened last night?" she asked her instructor. "I heard there was some kind of fight."

"Where?" Luna asked as she twirled around the pole for fun. "Here?"

"Yeah."

Frowning, Luna slid down slowly, sitting on the stage. "Who'd you hear that from?"

"Bellamy," she replied. "He has a black eye."

Luna shrugged and shook her head. "Well, he didn't get it here. There were no fights. In fact, last night was pretty typical."

 _Typical?_ Clarke thought. Well, a bar fight definitely wasn't _typical_. So her gut feeling that Bellamy hadn't been telling her everything was right. Something had happened.

Since she was distracted, Clarke made up a little white lie about being sick and needing to go home and rest some more, just so she could cut out of rehearsal early. Luna didn't question it, so she left. But instead of going home, she headed to the theater where Bellamy was rehearsing. Unless he'd been lying about that, too.

His car was parked outside, so she sat there and waited for him. She didn't have to wait long. About fifteen minutes after she'd shown up, he came out of the theater, holding one hand to his side this time, a mild look of pain on his face.

Yeah. This was _definitely_ not the result of a bar fight.

Getting out of her car, she blurted, "You lied to me."

He froze on the edge of the sidewalk, looking surprised to see her there. "What're you talkin' about?"

"About your eye. You didn't get that at the club; I asked Luna." She stepped up onto the sidewalk, squinting her eyes at him curiously. "What happened, Bellamy?"

"Nothing," he mumbled.

"Oh, so you just tripped and fell, right?" Wasn't that the excuse battered women often gave?

"No."

"Then something happened." She'd thought about it on the way over here, then thought about it some more while she was waiting. And no matter what speculations she came up with, she always came back to one conclusion. "It was Roan, wasn't it?" she guessed. "He did something." It was the only thing that made sense.

"I don't know if . . ." He sighed heavily, looking down at his feet as he admitted, "Yeah, he had some guys beat me up."

 _Oh god._ Her stomach clenched, and she felt like she should have figured it out sooner, like right after she saw him leaving this morning. "How hurt are you?" she questioned.

"I'm fine," he claimed, "barely even a-" But when she touched his side, he winced and said, "Ow."

"Let me see." She lifted up his shirt, catching a glimpse of a huge, dark, and painful-looking bruise around his ribs. "Oh my god, Bellamy."

"It's okay," he said, tugging his shirt back down. "I've been hurt worse out on the football field. I'll just be sore for a couple days."

She shook her head, not able to downplay the severity of this like he was. He didn't want her to worry, so of course he was acting like it was no big deal. He wanted to be the tough guy, the one who didn't need any help with anything. "This is my fault," she said regretfully.

"No, it's not."

"You should've told me."

Again, he exhaled heavily. "I didn't want you to worry about me."

"What, so you can worry about me all the time, but I can't ever worry about you?"

"Yes."

She huffed. "No!" That wasn't right, wasn't fair. And it wasn't possible. "Bellamy, look— _look_ at you! You have a black eye right now."

"Didn't you have a black eye not too long ago?" he pointed out.

"That was different. Nobody came and attacked me." This was . . . serious. At least it seemed that way to her. How could he be so calm about it? "Why don't you go to the police?" she suggested.

"With what proof?" He shook his head. "No, that'll only make it worse."

She didn't know what else to do about it then. Knowing Bellamy, he probably thought he could handle it himself. And maybe he could. But she was definitely a part of this, whether she wanted to be or not, so that meant she could probably do something about it, too. "Maybe I just need to be nicer to him," she pondered.

"To who, Roan?" he spat.

"Yeah. I mean, he's disgusting, but-"

"No, don't you dare," he growled. "Just keep pushing him away, Clarke. I don't want you to have anything to do with him."

"But I don't want him to hurt you," she protested. If carrying on a civilized conversation with her number one fan once in a while prevented something like this from happening again, then she could force herself to do that.

"I'll be fine," he insisted, reaching out to cup her cheek. He stroked his thumb across her skin tenderly, and he sounded so sure. But there was a look of uncertainty in his eyes that said otherwise.

...

Bellamy had been scheduled to work on Saturday, but he took the night off, probably because of his injuries. Fine by Clarke. It gave her the chance to go to the club and get something done. Something that _needed_ to be done. Something she didn't want him to know about, because it'd make his blood boil. Right now, she needed Bellamy to just be calm and at home, away from this place and . . . away from the people there.

First she spotted Echo, who was flirting with a disinterested Murphy at the bar. Then she spotted Roan, sprawled out on the couch while Roma danced up on stage, doing little to hold his interest.

Clarke adjusted her outfit, tugging down on her shirt to reveal more cleavage and raising her skirt to show more leg. It was way too cold to be dressed like this in New York in December, but . . . she figured Roan would be more inclined to listen to her if she showed up dressed skimpily.

She walked in front of him, blocking his view of the stage. "You look bored," she noted.

"I am," he said.

Gulping, trying to conceal her nerves, she blurted, "I wanna talk to you."

He sat up straighter, grinning lasciviously. "Well, suddenly I'm not so bored anymore."

She felt a shiver go up her spine, but she forced herself to ignore it.

"Let's go," he said as he stood up. He led the way out of the club, and she felt humiliated to be following him. But thankfully, Echo was still monopolizing Murphy's time, and Niylah, too, was busy with customers at the bar. It was best if no one saw her leave, so that way no one could tell Bellamy.

She wasn't sure where Roan was taking her, but she got freaked out when he escorted her to his car and opened up the passenger's seat. "Please, get in," he said.

That sounded like a _really_ bad idea. "I don't wanna go anywhere," she told him.

"We'll stay right here," he promised. Could she trust that promise, though? Hardly. Still . . . she had to talk to him, and if he wanted to talk in the car . . . then fine, they'd talk in the car. And then she'd get out and go home and try to forget about this for the rest of the night.

Her heart pounded nervously as she sat down on the leather seat and he shut the door. He made his way around to the other side and got in, locking the door. She quickly pressed the unlock button, and he let her. "So . . ." he said. "What did you wanna talk about?"

There was no point in beating around the bush, especially not when she was so eager to get out of this car. "About what you did to Bellamy."

" _I_ didn't do anything," he was quick to point out.

"About what you told those guys to do to him," she amended. It really didn't make a difference. Ultimately, he was still the one responsible.

"Now what makes you so sure-"

"Cut the crap, Roan." It was obvious. No one else had any motive whatsoever to want to hurt Bellamy.

It took him a moment, but finally he confessed to it. "Alright. I told two of my friends to rough him up a bit."

"Why?"

He leaned towards her, automatically making her recoil. "Because you deserve better, Clarke," he said, looking her straight in the eyes. "And I know you say he's not even your boyfriend, but he sure as hell acts like one. He's too possessive; he wants to control you. He doesn't like you dancing here, doesn't like you talking to me. He won't give you _any_ freedom. I want better for you."

She made a face, amazed by how completely _wrong_ he was. "You don't even know him," she argued. "Or me, for that matter."

"I could _get_ to know you better if it wasn't for him," he claimed. "And you could get to know me."

She shuddered, disgusted by the thought.

"You might find out . . . I'm not such a bad guy. Not half as bad as he makes me out to be."

 _Or you're worse,_ she thought. God only knew what he'd convinced Ontari to do. "I don't wanna get to know you," she said, fighting the urge to just bolt out of that car. The longer she sat there, the more the hairs on the back of her neck stated to stand on end. "I just want you to leave Bellamy alone. No more hurting him. He doesn't deserve that."

"Hmm." Roan looked down at his lap, a contemplative expression on his face. "I'll tell you what, Clarke," he said as he met her eyes again. "I'll leave him alone. In exchange for one thing from you."

 _One thing?_ Oh god, she felt so freaked out. What if that one thing was something she couldn't give? "What do you want?" she asked nervously.

He smiled. The guy actually had the _audacity_ to smile at her. "A kiss," he answered. "That's it. Just one kiss, and I'll tell my guys never to lay a hand on him ever again."

 _A kiss._ Against her better judgment, she let her mind entertain the possibility. Could she kiss a guy like Roan? Just once, get it over with? Could she kiss a guy who wasn't her boyfriend, all for the sake of a boy who'd become her best friend these past few months?

"Ever?" she squeaked out.

"Ever," he confirmed.

One kiss in exchange for Bellamy's safety. When she thought about it like that, it was really a small price to pay. And she was willing to pay it. She'd hate every second of it, but if it was what she had to do . . .

Shakily, shamefully, she nodded, unable to say anything. It was all the consent Roan needed, though, as he leaned over further and put his hand on her face so he could get her to look at him. She didn't want to look at him, though, didn't want to see the cruel face of this man hovering right next to hers. So she squeezed her eyes shut and told herself not to cry as he put his mouth on hers. In a different circumstance with a different person, it could have been a nice kiss, but this . . . this was horrible. The worst kiss of her life because she didn't want it. Not from him.

He made sure to deepen the kiss, getting all that he could out of it, but she only let it go on a few seconds before turning away, tearing her lips from his. There. One kiss. That was it. All he got.

She pushed open the door and scrambled out of the car as a feeling of disgust invaded every inch of her body. She'd hated that. Hated every unwanted, unending second of it. But at least it was over. And now Bellamy was safe.

That night, she lay next to Finn, unable to fall asleep. She wondered what he would think if he knew what she'd done tonight. Would he be upset with her? Angry? Repulsed, even? Would he feel like she'd betrayed him, or would he understand? She couldn't very well tell him about it, because . . . it wasn't about him. It was about Bellamy, and maybe _that_ was what would upset him.

Since her mind was racing, she figured she'd just get up and go out in the living room to watch a little TV. But when she got out there, she didn't feel like watching TV. She didn't feel like watching anything. So she sat down on the couch, completely in the dark, and picked up her phone off the end table. The light from the screen illuminated the room.

She could call Maya, she supposed, tell her about all of this. Or even Jasper or Monty. Any one of the three of them would listen without judgment. But they wouldn't understand. They were living a life of college finals right now. That was their primary concern. This was . . . this was something they couldn't know about, because they _didn't_ know what she was doing for work. Getting them to understand what had happened tonight meant telling them more than she was willing to.

Even though her friends were out of the question, she still found herself calling someone, dialing a number she'd memorized as a child and would never forget. It surprised even her that she was calling this person, because she wouldn't have thought that hearing his voice would be comforting.

Her father answered after the third ring. "Clarke," he said. "I'm surprised to hear from you."

"I know." She could count on one hand the number of times they'd talked since she'd moved out here, and usually those conversations were incredibly brief. "I'm sorry I haven't called much."

"You haven't called at all," he corrected. "On the rare occasions we do talk, I'm the one who calls you."

Fair enough. She hadn't really made any effort. "I'm sorry," she said again, feeling a slight stab of guilt in her chest.

"It's okay," he said, sounding for just a moment like the father who used to assure her that it was okay that she had failed her fifth grade math test, that it was okay she'd lost her lunch money check in seventh grade, that it was _okay_ she'd come out as bisexual in high school. Hearing him say it now . . . it brought tears to her eyes.

"What's on your mind?" he asked her.

 _So much,_ she thought. But much like her friends, there were things he didn't know, couldn't know, things he wouldn't understand. So she had to keep it vague, had to be careful not to say too much. "Nothing, really," she said, trying to keep the sadness out of her voice. "It's just . . ." She thought of Roan, of Cage, of those guys at the Dropship restaurant, even. And it broke her heart to know that not one of them would ever even have a modicum of respect for her.

"I miss you, Dad," she whispered, wishing she was still a little girl, wishing she still believed that her daddy was so brave and strong that he could fix every problem, stop every bad thing from happening. She wished they still had the type of relationship where he could offer to be her hero, and she would believe that he actually could be.

"I miss you, too," he said. And even though he had his boyfriend and practically had a new stepson in Wells . . . when he said that to her, he sounded sincere.


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24_

Bellamy _really_ wasn't looking forward to sitting down with Pike for lunch. He knew he'd have to explain why his face had become someone's punching bag, and his agent wasn't going to be happy about it. There was no disguising it, though that didn't stop him from wearing sunglasses just to attempt covering it up.

Pike wasn't fooled for a second, though. "Let's see it," he said right after Bellamy sat down in the booth.

Reluctantly, he took off his glasses, revealing the bruised and swollen flesh underneath.

"Jesus Christ, Bellamy."

"What? It's not as bad as it was yesterday." Today, he could actually blink without it hurting.

"Well, I was gonna suggest a photo shoot to update your portfolio, but clearly that's off the table." Pike shook his head frustratedly. "What the hell were you doing? Did you go out and pick a fight?"

"No, I got jumped in my own parking lot by these two guys."

Pike pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. "They take your money?"

"No, they just whaled on me."

"Why?"

He thought about fabricating some kind of an excuse, but it was easier just to tell the truth. "Because there's this girl . . ."

"Oh, of course."

"No, she wasn't . . ." He hated the way Pike said that, like there was _always_ some girl. Clarke wasn't Bree or Roma or any of the other girls he'd slept with over the years. She was . . . different. "It's not her fault," he said, feeling the need to defend her. "There's just this guy at the club who wants me to stay away from her."

Pike snorted. "Well, then you need to."

"No, I can't." He wasn't even going to try, because . . . he didn't want to. "I live next to her. I work with her. I see her all the time."

"Sleeping with her?" Pike asked.

He made a face. "No, not that it's any of your business."

"I'm _your_ agent, Bellamy, which means it _is_ my business," Pike insisted. "Now I don't want anything to happen to you, and of course I'm thinking about your career here. You can't land any parts or book any shoots looking the way you do right now. Your appearance is part of the package you're supposed to be selling, and right now . . . you look awful."

"Thanks," he muttered sarcastically.

"I'm just being honest. I'm sure your stage director wasn't happy to see you show up like this."

No, he hadn't been, but they'd rehearsed everything anyway. Even with his ribs—which the free clinic doctor had declared 'very bruised but not fractured'—they'd run through the last scene where Gina leapt into his arms and they kissed. Repeatedly. He'd been in some serious pain last night, but he was better today. "It's fine," he said, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole thing. "It'll heal by the time we perform."

"And if you don't leave this girl alone and you get attacked again?" Pike asked. "What then?"

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, if he hadn't been on high alert every time he'd gotten out of his car, if he hadn't been looking over his shoulder more often than he had before. But he wasn't scared, and it wasn't deterring him.

"Face it, Bellamy, you have to cut her loose," Pike said, as though it were that simple. "A girl like this . . . she's no good for you or your career."

 _What the fuck do you know?_ Bellamy wanted to shout. Pike didn't know Clarke, didn't know anything about her. Why the hell did he think he could sit here and tell him what to do about her? "Fuck you, Pike," he ground out.

"I'm just trying to give you advice."

"You know what? I think I'm done with your advice," Bellamy decided, feeling vindicated as he said the words. "I'm done with you."

"What're you saying?"

"You're not my agent anymore. Screw this." He grabbed his sunglasses and got up, storming off.

"Bellamy," Pike called after him. "Bellamy, come back here!"

He didn't stop, didn't even slow down.

"Fine, fend for yourself," Pike yelled. "But don't come running back to me!"

He didn't intend to.

...

Finn's company was launching some new campaign for a young designer, which meant, of course, a big party. A _fancy_ party in a VIP bar and lounge at a hotel. Not just anyone could attend. Cage had reserved the space just for his party, and it was invite only.

Unfortunately, Clarke had an invite. She knew it was just a formality, that she'd been invited solely because of Finn, and she also knew she didn't _have_ to show up. But Finn had done many of the photo shoots for this designer, and he seemed proud. So she went. Bought a new blue dress and went.

It was miserable.

"How long is this gonna last?" she groaned impatiently as they roamed around, just talking and talking and talking some more to people.

"Oh, a couple more hours at least," he said, grabbing a martini as a waiter strolled by with several on a tray. "Why? You're not having fun?"

"Not really." She stirred her drink, glad that she could at least get alcohol here. "I barely know anyone."

"You know Raven," he pointed out.

Clarke looked over to her left, where Raven was showing off a sample billboard with one of Finn's photos of a super skinny model, scantily-clad model on it. Yeah, she knew Raven, but Raven was busy. And when Raven was around, she and Finn talked a mile a minute, mostly about things Clarke didn't care about or understand.

"You know Cage," he added.

She made a face of disgust. "I hate Cage."

"Don't say that too loud," he cautioned, motioning over her shoulder. "He's coming over here as we speak."

"Oh, goodie." She took another drink.

"Great turnout, don't you think?" Cage said boastfully, sidling up next to Clarke. She knew better than to think he was addressing her, though, so she just ignored him.

"It's really good," Finn agreed. "More than we expected, right?"

"Much more." He grinned. "What do you think, Clarke? Are you having a good time?"

Part of her wanted to be completely blunt and tell him it was one of the lamest parties she'd ever been to. But she bit her tongue and instead mumbled, "The time of my life."

"I know it's not exactly what you're used to," he said, "but don't worry, you look like you fit in."

She almost threw her drink at him when he said that, because . . . what the hell was he implying? That a girl like her didn't really belong here? That she wasn't good enough for this mind-numbing type of boredom? What, did he think Grounders was the _only_ thing she was used to? Little did he know, she used to attend parties and charity events like this with her parents all the time. They'd been wealthy once, a staple of the town.

"Oh, look, there's Roger," Cage said, his attention drifting. "Roger!" He waved somebody over, and Clarke just glared at him.

A young man approached, gasping, " _Amazing_ party. This is everything right now."

"Thank you, thank you," Cage said. "Finn, you know Roger, right?"

"Yeah, we met the other day."

"I don't know Roger," Clarke piped up, not that she'd expected Cage—or Finn, for that matter—to introduce her.

Smiling tightly, Cage said, "Clarke, this is Roger, our newest addition to the creative team. He's a photographer."

"Oh." Great, just what they needed, someone else to do the job that Finn had been hired for. "So all that money that you promised Finn is now gonna be split between Finn and _Roger_." She really didn't care if she was being sassy. She had a couple of drinks in her, so she felt brazen. And Cage totally deserved her animosity.

"You know, Roger, I might have you photograph Clarke sometime," Cage blurted suddenly.

"Oh, are you a model?" Roger asked her.

Before she could answer, Cage laughing replied, "No, she works at Grounders. She's one of the strippers."

Clarke felt her heart drop.

"But they've got another photo shoot coming up," Cage went on. "I think you'd be great for it."

 _Oh my god._ She looked down at the drink in her hand, feeling . . . humiliated. Why did he even have to bring up what she did for a living?

"Let me go introduce you to some people."

She breathed a sigh of relief when Cage took Roger and led him through the crowd, but she still felt like a puppy that had just been kicked. "Did you hear that?" she spat.

"What?" Finn responded.

"What he said to me just now. He called me a stripper."

"Well . . ." Finn shrugged. "That _is_ what you do, babe."

"Yeah, but I don't wanna publicize it to the people here." Everyone who had invited this party . . . they seemed like the kind of people who would look down on her for the kind of work she did. In their minds, they had _real_ jobs; she was just a stripper.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," he told her.

"I know, but . . . he looks down on me. He thinks I'm trash," she lamented. "And you just stand there and let him say whatever he wants."

"Well, what am I supposed to do? He's my boss."

"And also your cousin. You could say something to him." It wasn't like Finn was at risk of getting fired. If there was anyone whose job was completely safe, it was his. Nepotism and all that.

"I will say something," he promised. "Next time."

"Oh, great, so there's gonna be a next time." This was so annoying. Just being here at this party, not having any fun at all but _knowing_ there would be another party next month or the month after, knowing that Cage would be there and Cage would say something and Cage would continue to look down on her while Finn just stood back and watched . . . it had her feeling like she was going to explode. "I need . . . some space," she decided, handing him what was left of her drink as she moved past him, heading for the exit.

She left the lounge and wandered through the hotel, up past the front desk, the ATM. Nobody paid her any attention, and that was fine. This whole hotel was a ritzy place, filled with people who, even though they hadn't been invited to that party, probably would have fit in just fine there. She didn't care to fit in with them.

She took her phone out of her clutch, not surprised to see that her friends back home had sent her several photos. They were at their own party tonight, and it looked a hell of a lot more fun than this one was. Everyone was dressed in sweatshirts and jeans instead of fancy suits and dresses. They were holding red solo cups full of beer rather than glasses of champagne. They were smiling. They were happy to be there.

 _I have to get out of here,_ Clarke thought. She couldn't take any more of this stupid party tonight.

Dead-set on going home, she returned to the lounge only long enough to find Finn and tell him, "Hey, I'm not really feeling so great. Can I take the car?"

"Yeah," he said. "You good to drive?"

She nodded.

"Alright, I'll get home another way then."

"Okay. See you later." She hastily left, a bit stung by the fact that he hadn't even offered to go home with her, but . . . whatever. His workplace, his party.

When she arrived at home . . . it didn't feel as good as she'd expected it to. Sure, there was definitely an allure to the prospect of curling up in some sweats, grabbing a carton of ice cream, and seeing who Jimmy Kimmel was interviewing tonight. But she had a lot of those nights, a lot of time spent alone, and right now . . .

She glanced over at Bellamy's door.

 _I wonder if he's home,_ she thought, slowly walking over there. She knocked softly, hoping she wasn't . . . interrupting. Just because he hadn't had a girl over for a while didn't mean he'd be alone tonight.

She heard him opening his door, unlocking the chain lock and the deadbolt, which she took to mean that he was being extra cautious ever since Roan's guys had jumped him in the parking lot. When he opened the door, he looked surprised but not disappointed to see her. "Hey."

"Hey." She surveyed his outfit. Jeans and a dark t-shirt. He didn't look like he was going out, and when she peeked inside, she didn't see anyone else there.

"You're dressed up," he noted.

"I was at a party," she answered unenthusiastically. "It was lame."

He smirked, opening the door wider. "You wanna come in?"

Did she want to hang out with him and have an actual good time? "Yeah." Without hesitation, she slipped inside.

Luckily, Bellamy had ice cream, so even though she wasn't in comfy clothes, she could still enjoy that part of vegging out. He scooped a bowl of chocolate ice cream for her and mint chocolate chip for himself while she sat on the couch and played his video games for him.

"So Octavia called me today," he said, sitting beside her.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." He handed her her bowl and dug right into his own. "She hardly ever calls, always texts. But she's freaking out. She doesn't know what to get Ilian for Christmas."

"Did you give her any ideas?"

"No, I just told her whatever she gets him has to be something tangible and not sexual."

"You can never go wrong putting on a sexy Mrs. Claus costume and telling a boy to unwrap you, though," she teased.

"Please, Clarke, I don't wanna picture my little sister doing that."

She laughed, taking her first bite. Damn, that was some cold ice cream. Must have been up in his freezer for a long time. "Oh, I'm sure she'll think of something," she said. "They've been together a long time, haven't they?"

"All throughout high school."

"Aww, that's sweet." She knew that, in small towns especially, sometimes the relationships actually lasted into adulthood. "Do you think they're gonna stay together after they graduate?"

"Yeah. They'll probably tie the knot someday." He rolled his eyes. "Hopefully they'll wait a couple more years, though."

She wondered who Ilian would ask for permission when the time came. Octavia's mom? Or Bellamy? Without a father to walk her down the aisle, would Octavia walk herself? Or would she get her big brother to walk with her?

She thought about herself then, wondering who would walk _her_ down the aisle someday. When she'd been a little girl fantasizing about her big day, she'd always pictured her dad by her side. But now . . . that relationship was so strained now.

"Finn wanted to get married after we turned eighteen," she blurted as she shifted the ice cream scoops around her bowl, making them mushier.

Bellamy nearly choked on his. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." That had been her reaction, too, when he'd first brought it up. "We were cuddling on his couch one night, and he was like, 'Let's just do it. Let's just run off and do it.' And we almost did." They'd looked up places online. She'd even pulled a white dress out of her closet.

"Wow," he said, sounding stunned.

"Well, I was feeling very rebellious at that point," she explained. "My mom and dad had split, and I was so angry at the both of them. The thought of running off and getting _married_ without even telling them . . . it was kind of appealing."

"But you didn't," he said.

"No, I didn't." And looking back, she was glad she hadn't. If she'd decided to do that, it would have been for the wrong reasons.

"You'd really marry Finn, though?" Bellamy questioned incredulously. "I mean, if he asked."

What was so unbelievable about that? She'd moved here with the guy, lived with him. "Well, he's been my boyfriend for two and a half years," she pointed out.

"So you'd marry him?"

"Well, he hasn't asked."

"But if he did, you'd say yes."

"I don't—I don't think he's gonna ask," she sputtered, "but if he did . . ." She looked down at the ice cream in her bowl, mumbling, "Yeah, of course I'd say yes." He wasn't _going_ to ask, though. They'd decided to put that idea on the back burner for a while and just focus on being out on their own for now. Seemed like it was for the best.

"Is Finn still at the party?" Bellamy asked her.

She almost felt embarrassed to admit that . . . yeah, he was. He hadn't come home with her, hadn't even offered. He was there, and she was here. And all she could do was nod wordlessly.

"Hmm," Bellamy said. And it was a _loaded_ hmm.

 _Okay, enough about Finn,_ she decided. He'd already frustrated her tonight, and thinking and talking about him right now wasn't frustrating her any less. In an attempt to change the topic, she inquired, "How's your play coming?"

"Oh, it's coming," he said, shoving in another spoonful of ice cream. "Hopefully we'll have it ready in a couple weeks."

"Hopefully?"

"Yeah, there's a few scenes we're really struggling with. Like this one where we have to slow dance."

"You're not much of a dancer," she said.

"Well, I can fake my way through it, but . . ." He leaned forward, setting his bowl down on the coffee table, apparently done eating. "You know what scene I'm talking about? You ran lines with me for that one."

"Yeah, I think I remember it." She'd run lines with him for the majority of the scenes in this play, some scenes more than once. She liked the slow dance scene. She could picture it in her head.

"You wanna run it with me again?" he asked.

"Sure." She set her bowl down next to his and tuned to face him, figuring they'd just do the dialogue. But he stood up, holding out his hand, and she said, "Oh, we're actually gonna dance this time," as she took it and let him help her up.

"Yeah, that's what makes it hard." He grabbed his phone off the arm of the couch, his thumb sliding over the screen for a bit as he got a romantic song to play. It sort of had an Ed Sheeran vibe to it, but Bellamy didn't do super mainstream stuff like that, so it couldn't be him.

"Is this the song that's actually gonna be playing?" she asked.

"I think so. Or something like it." He moved in close, circling one arm around her waist, holding the other out to the side.

"Oh, so it's like old-fashioned dancing," she said, grabbing hold of his hand. She slid her free hand up his chest and onto his shoulder as they slowly began to sway.

"Anything else makes us look like two kids at a junior high dance," he said.

She laughed, bending her head forward a little, then flipped her hair out of her face as she looked up at him. "So who says the first line?"

"I do. It's, uh . . . 'You look really beautiful tonight.'"

"Thanks." She felt herself blushing a little, even though . . . it was dialogue. He wasn't _really_ saying that. "That's what she says, right?"

"Yeah."

"And then she says, 'You don't look too bad yourself.'" Letting her eyes roam over him a bit, she couldn't deny the truth of that. Even with his black eye, Bellamy still looked good.

"See, it's hard, though, 'cause you can't say that when your back's facing the audience," he explained. "Or when I'm blocking you. Then they can't hear you."

"So dance faster then," she suggested.

"We can't. Gotta make it look romantic."

 _Does it look romantic?_ she wondered, staring up into his eyes. She wasn't an actress by any means, but what they were doing right now . . . it seemed pretty convincing to her. "Well, what do you say after that?" she prompted.

"I say 'Didn't expect to see you tonight,'" he went on.

She was surprised how many of the lines she actually remembered, but it wasn't difficult dialogue. It was natural, and each line was short, so she continued playing the part, too. "'I know. I kind of just . . . ended up here.'" She smiled softly, feeling like what they were saying could actually apply to how she'd shown up here tonight. Ice cream and slow-dancing with Bellamy hadn't been on her day's agenda, but . . . well, here she was.

"And then the script says we look into each other's eyes, _longingly_ , for a few seconds," Bellamy said. Exaggeratedly, he squinted his eyes at her, and she couldn't help but laugh. "The script doesn't say you do that," he said.

"Well, I could. It would fit. I feel like she would laugh there."

"Gina hasn't been laughing."

 _Well, I'm not Gina,_ she thought. Nothing against Gina or anything. "I remember what happens next," she said. "She says, 'Why do I only feel like this when I'm with you?'"

"'Maybe because this is where you're meant to be.'"

"God, it's so cheesy!" she exclaimed.

"I know. I love it, though."

"Yeah, it's a good love story." She felt his fingertips grazing the small of her back, wondering if he even realized he was doing that. "I like all the subtle moments."

"Hmm. Like this one?"

"Yeah." So many love stories these days relied on sex to convey intimacy, but a poignant conversation, a hug, a slow dance . . . all of those things could be just as intimate. "What happens next?" she whispered.

"Well, he tries to kiss her, but she pulls away."

"Oh." Of course. Had to draw it out. It was part of the rising action, or whatever, a slow burn type of thing. "We don't have to rehearse that part."

"No?" he said questioningly.

"No." She felt like they'd slowed down significantly, to the point where their feet were barely moving anymore, but his hand was still holding hers tightly, and he hadn't once broken eye contact.

She felt her heart beating. Pretty quickly. And she wasn't sure why.

As the song came to an end, noise next door snapped her out of her momentary stupor. She heard keys jangling, the door opening and closing, footsteps. "I think that's Finn," she said, backing up a bit, letting go of his hand. "He must've come home early."

Bellamy didn't say anything. He just kept staring at her, almost dazedly.

"I should go," she said, already missing the warmth of his hand on her back.

It took him a moment, but eventually, he nodded in agreement.

When she got home, Finn was in the bedroom, changing out of his suit into just his boxers for the night. "Hey, where were you?" he asked her.

"Oh, I went and hung out with Harper," she lied.

"I thought you weren't feeling well, though."

Oh, crap, she had said that, hadn't she? "Well, I started feeling better." She hated being untruthful with him, but unlike the lie she'd told him about who she'd shared a hotel room with . . . she wasn't going to tell him the truth this time. Leaving his party to go hang out with Bellamy? No, he didn't need to know that.

Still, it bothered her. She sat down on the bed, kicking off her heels, and bemoaned, "Finn . . . do you feel like . . . we're drifting?"

He snapped the waistband of his boxers into place and sat down beside her. "What do you mean?"

"Drifting," she repeated. "Like drifting apart?" Try as she might to ignore it, she had this nagging feeling that they weren't as close here in New York as they had been in Arkadia. And that bothered her.

"No, of course not," he said. "I love you so much, Clarke. You know that, right?"

"I know." That wasn't what she'd asked, though. "But we hardly ever get to spend any time together, and when we do . . . I don't know, it just feels different."

He sighed, reaching over to put his hand on her lap. "Well, we're not in high school anymore, Clarke. We're adults now; it's gonna feel different."

"But I want it to feel the same." Back in high school, Finn had been the boy she'd run to when things at home were frustrating her. Finn had been the one to make her laugh even when she felt miserable, to make her smile even when she was down. Back in high school, Finn had been her constant companion, and now, it seemed like they spent more time apart than they did together. "Maybe we can just . . . can we spend the day together tomorrow?" she proposed, feeling like that might help. "I don't really have anything planned, and . . . I just really miss you."

Rubbing her leg, he quickly agreed to it. "Sure. I can clear my schedule."

"Really?" She smiled happily, already looking forward to it.

"Don't worry, Clarke," he said reassuringly. "We'll drift back together." He gave her a kiss on the cheek and moved over to his side of the bed to lie down.

 _Drifting back together,_ she thought, mulling it over. It seemed like a little bit of a contradiction to her, but . . . it was better than drifting further apart.

...

A loud _click_ and a flash woke Clarke up in the morning. "What—Finn!" she yelped, shielding her eyes. She pressed her face into her pillow as he continued to photograph her and groaned, "What're you doing?"

"Just snapping some pictures of my Princess," he replied. "Is that alright?"

"No. I probably look gross."

"You look beautiful. Just stay there." He backed up, knelt down, and she halfway smiled at him as he snapped another picture.

"What's this about?"

"I wanted to capture the moment," he said.

"The moment where I'm drooling on my pillow?"

"You weren't doing that." He shifted down to the foot of the bed and instructed, "Here, sit up."

She did, automatically trying to smooth out her hair as she did so.

"No, leave it messy," he said. "Take your shirt off."

This wasn't the first time she and Finn had experimented with sexy pictures in the _boudoir_ , nor would it be the last. She trusted him, so she did as instructed and peeled her shirt off, tossing it aside.

"And pull the sheet up over your chest, real demure-like," he told her. "Just tease what's underneath."

She leaned back against the headboard and lifted the sheet up, covering her bare chest, and she slid one bare leg out the side just to show a little more skin.

"There we go," he said, snapping a few pictures. "Gorgeous."

"Are these going in your personal collection?" she asked.

"Well, uh, actually, I was thinking I could show 'em to Cage."

Her eyes bulged in horror. "What?"

"Well, you know how he mentioned that Roger guy photographing your next shoot? I thought I'd beat him to the punch." He grinned excitedly.

So this wasn't just a little sexiness in the morning then. It was work-related? "You wanna use these photos for . . . your job?" she spat almost accusatorily.

"Well, and yours. Your boss wants more photos for the merchandise at the club."

"I thought you were just-" She blinked as the camera flashed harshly again. "Stop, please," she said, holding her hand up. She sat up straighter, so disappointed that he had an ulterior motive here. "I thought these were just for you."

"No, I think your boss is gonna love 'em," he said, completely oblivious to the hurt she was feeling. "It's something different than just the plain old studio."

"Yeah, but . . . this is our bedroom, Finn, our _bed_ ," she said emphatically, trying to get him to understand why this was just not okay. "It's too private, too personal. I don't want . . . I don't want these pictures going on cups and coasters and calendars. I don't want everyone having them."

"I thought you wanted to spend some time together today," he said sadly.

"Yeah, but not doing this." Snorting in disgust, she threw the sheet aside and got up, marching over to the dresser to get some fresh clothes out. "Can you just, like, forget about work for two seconds and be my boyfriend?" she snarled, changing into a new pair of panties.

"I _am_ your boyfriend."

"Not lately, you aren't." She put on her most comfortable bra, grabbed a pair of jeans, and then stepped over him on her way to the closet.

"Clarke, what do you want me to do?" he said desperately, setting his camera aside. "I'm trying here."

"I want you to erase all those pictures, for starters," she snapped.

"Come on, Clarke, they're good," he insisted. "Here, take a look at them." He tried to bring his camera over, but she was having none of that.

"No, I don't want to," she said, turning away from him as she tugged her jeans on.

"They're just pictures. Why are you bein' a bitch about this?"

She froze with her hand on her zipper, momentarily stunned. In over two years of dating, that word had never once left Finn's mouth. At least not in connection to her. "What'd you call me?" she gasped, whipping her head around.

"I . . . I'm sorry," he sputtered apologetically. "I didn't mean that."

He'd said it, though. He'd called her the same name those guys at Target had called her on Black Friday. He'd called her the same thing so many of those guys at the club probably thought of her as. "Forget it," she grumbled, buttoning her pants. "I don't wanna spend the day with you anymore." She grabbed a grey Taylor Swift t-shirt out of the closet and pushed past him.

"Clarke, please . . ." he stared. "Would you just-"

She slammed the door shut as she left the bedroom, not in the mood to hear any apologies. Maybe she could have gotten past the pictures and spent the day with him, but the argument was just too much right now. She'd woken up wanting to spend the day with him, and now all she wanted was some space. Right now, she was too angry with him to be around him.

She ended up outside without a coat, which was stupid this time of year, but it worked out. Because Bellamy was out there, too, getting into his car.

"Hey, where are you going?" she called out to him.

He stopped as he was about to sit down in the driver's seat, standing back up again. "To Best Buy to drop off my phone," he answered. "It quit working last night."

That didn't sound particularly exciting, but it sounded better than hanging out here all day. "And then?"

He shrugged. "Day off. For once."

 _Day off,_ she registered. _Perfect._ "Can I hang out with you?" she inquired.

It didn't take him long to answer with, "Sure. What do you wanna do?"

"I don't know," she said. "Something fun." She really wasn't picky by any means. She just wanted to be with him right now. Instead of Finn.

...

Clarke released the bowling ball down the lane. It went straight at first, but gradually, it veered to the right, to the point where it ended up in the gutter. Again.

"I suck," she groaned, pouting as she sulked back over to the ball dispenser. "Remind me how this is supposed to be fun again?"

"It _is_ fun," Bellamy insisted, "once you get better at it." He'd figured bowling would be good for Clarke right now. It was enough of a distraction to keep her mind off of whatever was bothering her, and it was the kind of sport where she could channel her rage. If Finn was bothering her, as he suspected, then she could just picture his face on the pins. Just like he was picturing Roan's.

"Well, what if I never get better?" she whined, fitting her fingers into the holes on one of the lightweight balls.

"You will. Just try again," he urged her.

She reapproached the lane, took a little time to line things up, and then released the ball. It went straight into the _other_ side of the gutter this time, doomed right from the start. "I'm hopeless," she lamented, flapping her arms against her sides.

"No, you're just . . . you're easing in."

She pointed to a little girl who couldn't have weighed more than the ball itself. She was sending it spinning down the lane granny style while her grandparents watched and clapped for her. "See, that's what I need," she said, "those bumpers on both sides of the lane."

"You don't need that."

She came back to the table and flopped down, and he got up to take his turn. They were only on the fifth frame, and already he was thirty-eight points ahead of her. It was pretty bad.

He took one of the heavier balls and hurled it down the lane, straight down the middle. It went fast, breaking up all the pins, and they all fell over. A perfect strike.

"How do you do that?" she yelped. Pointing up at the scoring screen, she said, "Look, yours was 14.8 miles per hour. What was mine?"

"Six."

" _Six?_ See? How am I supposed to knock down any pins when I have no arm strength?"

Oh, she had arm strength. Anyone who could pole-dance had some arm strength. She just wasn't good at bowling, and by her own admission, she hadn't done it for years. "You don't need it to go fast," he told her. "You just need accuracy. Here, I'll help you." He motioned her up.

"I don't think I can be helped," she muttered, getting to her feet.

"Yes, you can." He handed the lightweight ball to her, and she fitted her fingers in the holes. As she walked up to the lane line, he stood behind her, instructing her. "Curl it up," he said.

She bent her arm at the elbow, letting the ball rest on her shoulder, and he reached around with his arm to cover hers.

"Now you're gonna keep your wrist facing upward," he told her. "No more of this raptor claw grip you got goin' on. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Swing back," he said, guiding her movements with his own hands, "and go!"

The ball landed with a thud, rolling down the middle of the lane at about two miles per hour. It curved a little to the right at the end, but it was still good enough to knock down three pins.

"Well, that's better," he said.

No longer moping about her lack of ability, Clarke confidently declared, "I'm gonna get this," and picked up one of the heavier balls.

"I'm sure you will." He gave her shoulder a squeeze and backed off, content to let her find her own rhythm. "You can roll for me, too," he said as he meandered back to the drink and snack bar, "just to keep the score close."

"Ha, ha," she deadpanned.

Grinning, he leaned against the counter and asked, "Hey, can I get a beer?" He handed over his card, because he'd spent the majority of his cash on these damn bowling shoes. But he did have a dollar left, and he knew how he wanted to spend it. "And can I get this in quarters?"

After he had a beer in one hand and a dollar worth of quarters in the other, he slipped around the corner, where several arcade games were located. Clarke was still rolling furiously, totally distracted, so he seized his opportunity to get on the claw machine and win something. He'd always had unnatural luck with claw machines. Most of the stuff in there was crap, but he'd spotted a purple bear in there that he thought she might like. For some reason. And he was determined to get it. When he failed on his first attempt, he tried again. And that time, he got it. He held his breath as the claw rose, precariously holding the dangling bear. It dropped it down into the dispenser, and out it came.

He held the bear behind his back, concealing it from her view as he rejoined her at their lane. She had a little bit more of a bounce in her step now as she babbled, "Did you see? I knocked down seven pins that time."

"Good job." He whipped his hand out from behind her back, revealing the purple bear to her.

"Aww," she cooed, taking it from him, "that's so . . . is this for me?"

"Yeah, I got it from the claw machine."

"Oh, I suck at those, too." She squeezed the little bear, hugging it to her chest giddily. "Thank you," she said. "It's cute."

 _So are you,_ he thought, but he wasn't about to say it out loud.

"I'm still gonna kick your ass at this eventually, though," she vowed.

"Oh, bring it on, Princess." He wasn't going to take it easy on her. No way. A little friendly competition never hurt anyone.

They bowled for hours. _Literally_ hours. The place was having a special deal: bowl three hours for ten bucks. Couldn't beat that. They paused only to eat lunch—hot dogs and chips—and to fiddle around with the jukebox. She wanted pop and country; he wanted rap and rock. Couldn't agree.

With an hour left in their allotted bowling time, the place started to get busier. They ended up sharing their table with another couple, both of whom pretty much sucked at bowling. They ended up playing a game with all four of them together, and he knew Clarke took delight in beating them. She still wasn't _good_ , but she wasn't bad, either. She'd found a form that worked for her, and since he'd had a few too many beers, he had a few too many open frames. The score was closer than he'd ever anticipated it would be. Even though he felt confident he could pull out yet another win, she was within striking distance this time.

The guy sitting with them asked her, "Do you want the rest of my beer?" and of course her response was an eager, "Ooh, yes, please."

But Bellamy tugged on her shoulders, holding her back. "No, she doesn't. She wants her diet coke," he said, holding her can up for her. "Right?"

Pouting, she took it from him. "Right."

He smirked and got up to bowl his ninth frame. Ended up picking up a spare, so . . . not bad.

When it was Clarke's turn to take her last shot, she was laser-focused. He tried to distract her by hollering, "Don't mess up!" and "All comes down to this now!" but it was like she was tuning him out as she walked forward with the ball curled up over her shoulder, eyes narrowing in on that center pin.

"Your girlfriend's gettin' pretty good," the woman at their table remarked.

 _Girlfriend,_ he thought, not bothering to correct her. "Yeah, she's good at a lot of things."

Clarke released the ball, and it rolled down the lane at her usual pace. But it went straight in the center, and all the pins crashed to the floor. "Woohoo!" she exclaimed, jumping up and down ecstatically. "Oh my god, did you see that? I got a strike!"

"You did." And now, when he glanced up at the scoreboard, he saw that she was ahead of him. For the first time today. Only by a few points, but still . . .

"Am I beating you?" she gasped, craning her neck to get a look at the screen.

"Not by much." He got up, stretching out his fingers, rolling his shoulder back.

"Oh, you're probably gonna win," she said, taking his vacated seat. "But I've gotten way better."

"Yeah, you have." He'd always known Clarke was a quick study, but . . . damn. At the beginning of the day, she would've sworn he wouldn't have even broken one hundred.

He took his first roll, and it wasn't bad. He knocked down six of the pins, and the four that were left all clumped up on the left side, easy to hit.

"Two more pins and you beat her," the guy at their table told him.

Yeah, yeah, he'd done the math. One to tie it, two to win. But even though he'd said he wasn't going to take it easy on Clarke . . . part of him _did_ just want to let her win. Just because she'd look adorable if she did.

He chose the same ball he'd been using all day long, but he put an unneeded spin on it as he released it. It careened into the gutter, and he was satisfied with that.

"I won?" Clarke shrieked, jumping up from the chair. "Did I _actually_ win?"

"You did."

"Oh my god!" she squealed, jumping up and down. Throwing her arms around him, she hugged him tightly, and he lifted her up off her feet as she did so. Sore ribs be damned.

"This was so fun!" she exclaimed, beaming a smile up at him. She had a _beautiful_ smile, and she hadn't been showing it off this morning. But now she was. Whatever had been bothering her then clearly wasn't bother her now, and he took some pride in that.

He wasn't sure how long Clarke intended to hang out with him, but he didn't question it when she accompanied him back to Best Buy later that afternoon to pick up his phone, or when she wandered around the store with him looking at new video games. They went and got dinner after that—nothing fancy, just pizza again—and when she still didn't seem eager to head home, he decided to take her somewhere else he thought she might enjoy: Rockefeller Center.

"No one should live in New York without seeing this Christmas tree," he said.

"Wow," she gasped in astonishment as she took in the mammoth evergreen for the first time. "It's beautiful."

He smiled at her. "Yeah."

"I've seen it on TV, but . . . it looks even better in person." She pointed to the people ice skating on the rink next to it and proposed, "Hey, you wanna go do that?"

"Fractured ribs, remember?" It probably wasn't a good idea.

"Oh, yeah, the bowling probably didn't help with that."

No, it hadn't, but he didn't care. "I can't ice skate," he admitted. He'd tried once before and failed miserably.

"Neither can I," she said. "Maybe after you feel better, we can go out there and humiliate ourselves sometime."

"Maybe." He was pretty much down to try anything with Clarke. She'd probably catch onto it fast, so maybe if she got it, she could help him.

She leaned against the railing separating them from the rink and asked him, "So do you like Christmastime?"

He shrugged. "It's alright."

"I love it," she said, eyes twinkling with the lights from that tree. "Or at least I used to. My dad always put up all these decorations. We had the prettiest house in town. And my mom and I baked cookies every single year."

"Leave 'em out for Santa?" he guessed.

"Yeah. I believed in Santa for a long time."

He shook his head. "I never believed."

She tilted her head to the side curiously. "Why not?"

"Because I never got presents." He wasn't exaggerating. He'd literally _never_ opened up a Christmas present growing up. But he'd always gotten one for Octavia. "My mom couldn't afford anything, so . . ." He shrugged, not about to feel sorry for himself. He was far from the only kid in the world he'd grown up in bad circumstances.

For a moment, she looked sad for him, but she didn't let it linger. "Well, what are you doing this year?" she asked.

"I don't know. Usually I just call up some chick, invite her over, and . . ." He trailed off, figuring he didn't need to say the rest.

"Well. That's one type of tradition."

It was a tradition he was tired of, to be honest. "I'm not gonna do that this year."

"Well, then why don't you come over?" she suggested.

"To your place?"

"Yeah. Finn and I are gonna do some kind of meal. A small one. And we're gonna watch Christmas movies."

That sounded like . . . boyfriend/girlfriend plans. He wasn't sure where he'd fit in there. "Yeah, I don't wanna be like the third wheel, though," he said.

"You won't be. I'll invite Harper, too."

He wasn't really sure how much that would help, because Harper would probably be on her phone with Monty the whole time. But at least it was better than just him. And it gave him something to do on the holiday. "I'll think about it," he said, not wanting to commit to anything just yet. If flights got real cheap, he might try to swing home for the holidays, just to check up on his mom and spend some more time with Octavia. But chances were, he'd be stuck here, and if he was stuck . . . well, he wouldn't mind being stuck with Clarke Griffin.

...

It was late when Finn got home. Really late. Clarke had almost decided to go to sleep when he walked in the door. He shuffled around out in the kitchen for a few minutes before coming into the bedroom, where she sat with her new purple teddy bear from the claw machine.

"Hey," he said, shuffling towards the bed. "What's that?"

"A stuffed animal," she replied, stating the obvious.

"Looks kinda cheap."

Well, it was kind of cheap, but it was also kind of sweet. "I like it," she said. She'd already named him Vincent, just because . . . why not have a purple teddy bear named Vincent?

"So I spent all day at work . . . just thinking about you," he said, sitting down on the side of the bed. "What'd you do today?"

 _Went bowling with Bellamy,_ she thought. _Went and saw the Rockefeller Center tree with Bellamy._ She'd actually ended up having a really nice day, despite the crappy way it'd begun. Finn had probably ended up going to work.

"I'm so sorry I called you a bitch," he apologized when she neglected to answer his question. "And you're—you're right about the pictures. I got rid of all of them, just like you wanted."

Well . . . that was something, she supposed.

"I don't want you to feel like we're drifting, Clarke. I really don't," he said. "I wanna be the guy you love. I will be. I promise."

He sounded so sincere when he said that, and she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him more than anything in the world. She wanted to believe that, the next time Cage said something that hurt her feelings, Finn would stand up for her. And the next time he took photos of her, it would be because he was captivated by her, not because he was thinking about their jobs.

She nodded, a way of wordlessly accepting his apology. And he leaned forward, cupping the side of her face so he could kiss her. It was a nice kiss, not too forceful, not too sloppy. But it quickly escalated into more than just a kiss. Before she knew what was happening, he was crawling on top of her, enveloping her in his arms, covering her smaller frame with his. She set the purple bear aside, slithering down on the pillows as he sat back and took his shirt off.

Finn had a nice body. He was always pleasing to the eye. But after fighting this morning, she wasn't even sure she wanted to do this right now. She would have loved to have just laid in bed with him and cuddled for a while, just talking until they fell asleep. But clearly that wasn't happening.

Before she knew what was happening, he was flipping her over and tugging down on the shorts she wore to bed. She felt his hands on the bare-naked flesh of her ass, and she felt him enter into her a few seconds later. No build-up, no foreplay. Not that there was anything wrong with a quickie once in a while, but . . . if they were going to have sex, it would have been nice to draw it out for a change, go slow, make it romantic.

He pounded into her instead while she gripped the pillow beneath her head. Their bed rocked with each movement, and he grunted with every thrust. It definitely wasn't going to take him long to get there, and there was no _way_ she was going to get there. So she just laid there and let him finish, not even bothering to moan or make any little sounds of pleasure. She wasn't going to fake an orgasm. She was just going to let him have his, and then if he wanted to give her one later, he could. He'd probably fall asleep, though.

He pulled out and ended up cumming on the small of her back, and he collapsed beside her a moment later, smiling at her. She smiled back halfheartedly, wishing he'd understood that there were other ways to reconnect rather than just connecting physically.


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25_

When Clarke sat down next to Harper at the bar, her friend didn't notice her at first. Probably texting Monty or something. But when she finally looked up and saw her, she put her phone away and said, "Oh, hey, I think you've got your days wrong. Tomorrow night's the night you're gonna blow the roof off this club."

Clarke smiled sheepishly. "No, I just came to watch Vivian dance. She said she's doing something with a flaming baton."

"Oh, that sounds . . . ill-advised," Harper said, cringing, "but more power to her if it works."

Actually, Clarke hadn't known Harper would be there, either. She'd figured Niylah would be working, and Niylah was always down to talk about . . . the stuff Clarke wanted to talk about. But Harper was one of her closest friends these days, so this worked out even better. "I'm glad you're here, actually," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Harper spun her stool to face Clarke directly. "About what?"

"Well . . . sex."

"Oh, I love talking about sex." Harper's eyes lit up with excitement. "We should do it more often."

"It's . . . underwhelming sex, actually," she admitted. "With my boyfriend."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Yeah. I mean . . ." She sighed heavily, feeling frustrated by the whole situation. "It's not like he's _bad_ in bed; he's just not super attentive."

"That's bad then." Harper took a drink and asked, "Is it just, wam-bam-thank you ma'am?"

"A lot of the time," she admitted. "It's just not . . . satisfying."

"Does he ever get you off?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Like how often?"

She wasn't really used to having such an open, frank conversation about her sex life. Her mom knew she'd been sexually active with Finn, so she'd had 'the talk,' with her, of course, on numerous occasions. But since her mom was a doctor, that was all very clinical, focused on the biology of it. And she and Maya had swapped stories sometimes, but that had always been minimal, mostly because Clarke hadn't wanted to picture Jasper in bed any more than Maya had wanted to picture Finn.

"Clarke?" Harper prompted.

Well, there was no backtracking now. This conversation was happening. "I'd say about . . . twenty percent of the time?" she estimated.

"Twenty- _twenty_ percent?" Harper shrieked in disbelief. "Clarke! That's, like, one in five times. That's not fair to you."

"I fake it a lot," she confessed. So in Finn's mind, it was probably way higher than twenty.

"No, you shouldn't do that," Harper argued vehemently. "He needs to learn a thing or two."

"Well, actually, he has more experience than I do." Finn was the one and only partner she'd ever had, but he'd slept with a couple girls prior to her. She'd always just assumed he would know what he was doing more than he actually did.

"So? That doesn't mean he's above learning," Harper said. "Look, you should be honest with him. When it works, let him know. When it doesn't . . . let him _know_ , Clarke."

She squirmed uncomfortably, not sure how to go about that. "It's hard, though." She didn't want to be too blunt and hurt his feelings. She just wanted to drop some subtle hints, see if he might pick up on them.

"Well, what about the foreplay? When it happens," Harper went on. "Is that part at least good?

She tried to remember the last time Finn had devoted much time or effort to working her up and getting her in the mood, and . . . sadly, she couldn't. "It hardly ever happens."

"Oral?" Harper asked.

"Rarely. He doesn't like it. Well, he doesn't like _doing_ it; he likes having it done to him."

"Ugh, this is ridiculous. Let's get a guy's opinion," Harper decided. "Bellamy." She waved him over.

 _Bellamy?_ Clarke thought, her stomach clenching. They were going to talk to _Bellamy_ about sex?

"You've slept with a lot of girls," Harper started in. "Would you say they're . . . satisfied with your performance?"

He shrugged as he dried off a glass. "Most of the time, yeah."

"And how do you go about that? Satisfying them, I mean."

He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. "Why do you wanna know?"

"We're just curious."

Clarke felt the need to interject with a more tangible explanation, so she fibbed, "One of our friends has a boyfriend, and she wants to give him some pointers."

"Why doesn't she come ask me herself?" was his response.

"Well, she's embarrassed," Clarke mumbled, hoping he didn't at all catch onto the fact that _she_ was the one feeling that way.

"So how long do you spend on foreplay, on average?" Harper questioned, sounding like an investigative journalist.

"However long it takes to turn her on," he replied.

"And do you like it?"

He grinned. "Yeah, it's awesome."

That was what Clarke thought, too—the appetizer was good as the main dish and all that—but Finn had never seemed to feel the same.

"And is oral sex part of that foreplay?" Harper continued on.

Bellamy bent down to set the glass underneath the counter and continued his nonchalant answers. "Sometimes, yeah."

"Blowjobs, eating out, sixty-nine? What're we talking about here?"

"All of the above. I like pretty much everything."

Clarke moved around on her seat a bit. Now all of a sudden she was picturing Bellamy _doing_ all of those things, and . . . well, it really just looked like porn in her mind.

"But which do you like better," Harper inquired, "getting pleasure or giving it?"

"Oh, I like giving it," he answered without hesitation.

"Really?" Harper gasped, giving Clarke an astounded look. "Interesting."

"Why's that?" Clarke asked quietly. She'd always assumed blowjobs were, like, the holy grail of sexual encounters for most men.

"Because, seeing a girl fall apart all because of what you're doin' to her?" Bellamy's eyes took on a glazed over look as he talked about it. "It's amazing. I love knowing I can make someone feel that way."

Just hearing him talk about it made Clarke's thighs quiver. "But what if a guy doesn't _like_ eating girls out?" she asked.

Bellamy snorted. "Then he's either completely stupid or just an ass. It's the best thing in the world. That girl's literally gonna let you put your dick in her body. You owe her something in return."

He sounded so . . . grateful for it. Like it wasn't a chore at all; it was a privilege.

"So is that the primary method you use to get girls off?" Harper asked.

"Well, it works more often than it doesn't," he said. "But I get 'em off with sex, too. Actually, I usually try to get 'em off both ways."

 _Both ways?_ Clarke could barely even comprehend the prospect of multiple orgasms since she so infrequently even had one. "And do you think it works?" she asked.

"Usually."

"You don't think they're faking it?"

"No."

 _Oh, that'd be_ so _nice,_ she thought longingly. She would have loved to experience something like that with Finn, and she felt like she _could_ if he just . . . put a little more effort into the whole thing.

"So do you like to go fast or take your time?" Harper asked him.

"Hmm." He thought about it for a moment, then replied, "Depends on what kind of mood she's in."

"She?" Clarke echoed. It wasn't dependent on _his_ mood.

"Yeah. I try to figure out what the girl's in the mood for. I can do whatever she wants."

She smiled dazedly, impressed that he was so dedicated to giving the girls he slept with so much pleasure. It wasn't like he was dating them or even serious at all. Most of them were one-night stands, but it sounded like he made it one night to remember.

"So all in all, it sounds like you're _really_ focused on whoever you're with," Harper summarized. "Like she's the center of attention. You get off on getting _her_ off."

"Yeah, pretty much," he agreed.

"Well." Harper nodded. "This has been very insightful, don't you think?"

"Yeah, we'll . . . we'll pass it along. To our friend." Clarke almost rolled her eyes at herself, because . . . honestly, what a lame excuse to ask him all this stuff.

"You do that," he said, clearly not believing her flimsy lie for a second. He ventured down to the other end of the bar, where a customer was waving him over.

"Harper!" Clarke shrieked, whacking her friend's shoulder.

"What?" Harper said innocently. "Now you know: It can be so much better."

It really could be, couldn't it? Sure, Bellamy had more experience than Finn—hell, he probably had more experience than half the planet—but Finn could _get_ better. And she was willing to take some pointers from him, too. Maybe she could do something that he would like. It didn't have to just be him making more of an effort. It could be a mutual thing.

"So go home tonight, Clarke," Harper urged, "and get some of the action you deserve."

 _I'll try,_ she thought, hoping a few small requests and minor pointers wouldn't hurt Finn's ego.

...

Finding the courage to talk to her boyfriend wasn't the easiest thing for Clarke to do. He got home early enough that night that she had ample time, but every time she thought she was going to do it, she chickened out. At first, she thought she might mention it to him before they ate dinner. But that didn't happen. And then she decided she'd bring it up _while_ they ate dinner. But that didn't happen, either. So as she stood at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes, she planned out what she was going to say, how she was going to say it, even the subtle mannerisms she was going to use. Her plan was to make it seem more like a suggestion rather than a demand. Hopefully he'd be receptive.

Plopping down on the couch next to him, she began with, "Hey, so, I was thinking . . . we should do something different tonight."

He put his arm around her, eyes still focused on the TV screen. "What do you mean?"

"Well . . . I'd really like it if you . . ." _Turn off this stupid game show,_ she thought. She knew he'd worked all day and was tired, but there were better things they could do with their time. "I'd really like it if you go down on me," she finally just blurted.

He made a face. He _actually_ made a face.

 _God, is it that bad?_ she wondered self-consciously. She had good hygiene and everything, but if it made him feel better, she was willing to hop in the shower beforehand. "And then afterward I could do the same to you," she offered quickly, threading her fingers lovingly through his hair. "Or we could sixty-nine. That's always an option." The last time they'd tried that, over the summer, they'd been pretty clumsy at it. But practice made perfect. Right?

"I don't really like doing that," he said dismissively.

"What, sixty-nine?"

"Or . . . the other thing."

 _The other thing?_ He didn't even want to _say_ it? "But don't you wanna watch me fall apart, all because of what you're doing to me?" she asked, quoting Bellamy. "I'd love to do that with you."

"Or we could just cut straight to the chase," he suggested, reaching down to fiddle with her jeans.

"No, that's what I'm saying." She gently took his hand and moved it away. "I don't wanna—I don't wanna _cut_. I just wanna . . ." She gazed at him pleadingly, wishing that look on his face would change. But it didn't. He wasn't even contemplating doing something different with her tonight. He was . . . he _was_ satisfied. "Never mind, it's okay," she said, mentally kicking herself for being so complacent about it. She just didn't know how to push it any further without upsetting him.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm actually kinda tired anyway," she lied, standing up. "I'm gonna go get ready for bed." She started down the hallway, trying not to look as disappointed as she actually felt.

"I'll be in soon," he called after her.

She ended up veering off into the bathroom instead and soaked in the tub for a while that night. She made up a bubble bath for herself, despite not feeling very bubbly, and lay neck-deep in the warm water with her head resting on the edge. Trying not to dwell on tonight's failed attempt at a greater intimacy, she shut her eyes, hoping to relax. But it didn't seem possible. Inside her, it seemed like there was this swirling agitation, an overwhelming itch that needed to be scratched. And Finn didn't want to be the one to scratch it for her.

Her hands were already beneath the water, so she didn't even have to move them that much to slide in between her legs. She began to touch herself, feeling sort of guilty even though she knew there was nothing wrong with this. Masturbation was both normal and healthy, and it wasn't like she'd never done it before. Like many girls, she had herself a vibrator, and she used it from time to time. But this just felt . . . different somehow. More desperate.

She worked her fingers in and out of her tight passage and rubbed her clit furiously, not just wanting but _needing_ to get off. She found herself thinking about that look in Bellamy's eyes when he'd said those things today: _"It's amazing. It's the best thing in the world."_

Why didn't Finn understand how amazing it was?

She whimpered a bit when she thought of Bellamy saying, _"I can do whatever she wants,"_ and she knew it was only a matter of time until she got herself there. Only a matter of time.

...

"Bellamy!" Shumway bellowed. "Where the hell are you?" He marched up onto the stage, shaking his head in contempt. "Usually I feel like I'm trying to get more out of Gina, but it's like you're not even here tonight."

"No, I'm here," Bellamy insisted. "I just . . ." He glanced up at the clock, watching the minute hand approach the nine, almost directly on top of the hour hand now. "I can't stay much longer."

"And why is that?" Shumway challenged.

 _Because Clarke's gonna dance,_ he thought. _And I have to be there._ "Well, I have plans," he replied vaguely, figuring it was best if his director didn't know what those plans were. It wasn't like he wanted to be there for the same reason all those other men did. He'd promised the girl he was going to look after her, and that was exactly what he was going to do, no matter what.

"Change them," Shumway barked. "We'll be here another hour, at _least_."

Another hour? No, that didn't work for him. That didn't work at all.

"Come on, we got this," Gina tried to pump him up as Shumway trampled back down the steps. "Let's just focus."

That was the problem, though. He _couldn't_ focus right now.

"From the top of the scene," Shumway directed as he again took his seat.

Bellamy's mind was so elsewhere, he didn't even remember what scene they were rehearsing.

"It's your line," Gina prompted him.

"Oh, right." He remembered now. A big dramatic argument scene, sort of a pivotal one. "Alyssa, I really need to . . ." He trailed off, even though he knew the line, even though he'd said it dozens of times before. He didn't need to do anything for Alyssa. No, _Alyssa_ was a fictional character. Clarke was a real girl, and right now, the only thing he needed to do was to be there for her. "No, you know what? I need to go," he decided. "I'm sorry."

Shumway glared at him. "We're not done."

Struggling to keep his cool, Bellamy reminded him, "You told me we'd be done at 8:30. It's 8:45. I already stayed late."

The director crossed his arms over his chest disapprovingly. "What do you have going on that could possibly be more important than this?"

 _You wouldn't understand,_ Bellamy thought. So he sure as hell wasn't gonna tell him.

"We perform in three weeks!" Shumway yelled dramatically, waving his arms about in the air. "We're not ready!"

"I know. And I can stay late tomorrow," he offered, "but not tonight." He looked up at the clock again, worrying now. He only had fourteen minutes to get to the club. It wasn't that far away, but if as many people turned out as he suspected, parking would be a pain in the ass. He might have to walk a couple blocks.

"Bellamy, what . . ." Gina looked at him confusedly, but when it seemed to dawn on her why he was in such a hurry to get out of there, she hung her head, shaking it dejectedly. "You might as well let him go, sir," she said. "He's not gonna change his mind."

No. He really wasn't. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, trundling down the steps. He grabbed his jacket as he hustled out of the theater.

"You disappoint me, Bellamy," Shumway hollered after him.

 _Yeah, whatever,_ he thought, willing to let that parting shot roll right off his shoulders. He'd disappointed plenty of people before. Nothing new.

He ended up getting to Grounders right at 9:00, whipping his car into a parking space that wasn't technically a space. Let them give him a ticket. He didn't fucking care. There was a line hanging out the door, but he was able to cut and get right in.

 _Holy shit,_ he thought, looking around. He hadn't seen it that packed in there since Ontari had been in her prime. He knew Anya had been promoting the hell out of this, but . . . _damn_. Clarke sure did attract a crowd.

He wandered over to the bar, taking a seat on one of the vacated stools. Mostly everyone was crowding around the stage now, as if sensing that the big show was about to begin.

"Hey, I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it," Murphy said.

"Director kept me late," he explained.

"Well, consider yourself lucky you're not working tonight. It's nuts."

"I see that." He looked out on that crowd, wondering if Clarke was nervous at all or if she was just used to it at this point. He never wanted her to just be used to it. Ever. "Give me a beer, man," he told his friend. "I'm gonna need one."

"I can do you one better than that." Murphy reached around and grabbed a vodka bottle and poured Bellamy a shot.

"Thanks." He downed it eagerly, feeling like he might need another one before the performance was over. "Is Harper here?" he asked, surprised he didn't see her anywhere out there. Clarke was sort of her protégée, after all.

"Yeah, she's backstage with her, I think," Murphy replied.

He hesitated to ask about the next person, but . . . he had to. "And Roan?"

"Yep." Murphy subtly pointed him out, and Bellamy knew exactly where to look. When the crowd parted a bit, he saw that Roan was seated on his usual couch with Echo, and even though he had his arm around her, he had his eyes on Bellamy. He smirked, raised his own glass as if to toast, and took a drink.

"Here we go," Murphy mumbled as the lights started to dim.

 _Fuck,_ Bellamy thought, exhaling worriedly. Even if Clarke was ready for this, he wasn't.

Anya, quite dressed up herself, took the stage as the music died down to nothing, and a spotlight shone down on her. "How's everybody doing tonight? Are we having a good time?" she began.

Lots of whoops. Lots of hollers. Lots of semi-drunken cheers.

"Who's excited for our next performer?"

Louder cheers now, some vulgar ones.

"She's excited, too," Anya said. "In the short time that she's been here, she's become one of your absolute favorites. Now please, welcome to the stage, in her _first_ headline performance ever, the _Girl Next Door_!"

They welcomed her. Oh, they definitely welcomed her, in their own grotesque way. Between the "Shake that ass!" one guy on the fringe of the crowd shouted and the "Don't let us down, baby!" from some guy towards the center . . . what a welcome.

He tried to look away—he really did—when she took the stage. But she'd never been anything other than utterly captivating up there, and it was a losing battle to pretend otherwise.

He'd heard this song repeatedly the past week, whether it was here or back at home, because she'd been practicing a lot. Some breathy Britney Spears thing he never would have listened to on his own, but damn, he knew it said something about making her move, and . . . he wanted to make her move. Not like this, though. Not in front of all these people. Just him.

She commanded the stage right from the start as she confidently strutted around the pole in nothing but panties and a pink t-shirt. The shirt had a _Playboy_ bunny logo on it, so apparently the whole Girl Next Door thing was pretty literal tonight.

Bellamy was no pole-dancing expert by any means, but he'd worked there long enough and seen enough girls perform to know that the spins weren't as easy as they looked. And Clarke had gotten really good at them. Sometimes she spun slowly, sometimes quicker, but always in time with the beat. She hooked her legs, her arms, wrapped her whole body around that damn pole, moving like liquid. So fluid, so effortless. So sexy. _So_ damn sexy.

After the first round of the chorus, she smiled sweetly and seductively at the crowd and reached down to grab the bottom of her shirt in both hands. Torso squirming and circling, she pulled it over her head and threw it out into the crowd, where one guy nearly fainted when he caught it. Clad in solely a bra and panties now, she continued her routine, one full of wriggling, rolling hips, and flaring, fanning legs. When she flipped herself upside down and kicked both legs out to the sides, everyone hollered. But Bellamy was even more turned on when she squeezed her thighs around that pole and leaned backward, all the way, letting go of the pole, letting her arms dangle next to her head. She looked completely relaxed, but he knew something like that had to be hard as hell. And seeing her with her legs clamped around that pole made him imagine what it would feel like if they were clamped around him.

Of course she took her bra off. That was par for the course at his point; everybody expected it, and everybody loved it, because clearly Clarke's rack was incredible. But Bellamy was really hoping she wouldn't go any farther than that. Harper had plenty of fans and made plenty of money without taking _everything_ off. Clarke could do the same. She didn't have to get completely naked up there. She didn't have . . .

But she was going to. He could tell from the moment she turned around and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties. She peeked over her shoulder, smirking, and the thunders of shouts and applause she got as she slid her panties down past her ass almost blew the roof off that place.

 _No, no, no,_ he thought, still unable to tear his eyes away. _Please don't do it._

She did. Pushed that last garment of clothing all the way down to the floor, bending over exaggeratedly as she did so, giving everyone quite the view. She stepped out of them with one heel-clad foot and used the other foot to kick them aside. No one in the crowd got a hold of it, but a few of them clamored towards the stage like they wanted to. Luckily, there were two bouncers there to hold them back.

So there she was, nineteen year old Clarke Griffin, twirling around up on that stage without a stitch of clothing on. He saw . . . _everything._ They all did. Especially when she dropped down to a squat and spread her legs. She managed to make the move look more sensual than it did vulgar, but still . . .

God. The worst part was, watching her was totally making him hard.

The thing about headlining was that it was a longer performance than someone who was just opening or closing. She had a medley of songs to dance to, some of it choreographed, some of it clearly freestyled. Between every song, she'd slip back behind the curtain for a costume change and come out in some new sexy get-up: a white corset, a leather jacket with nothing underneath, and even a top made completely out of beads at one point. Bellamy sat there and watched the whole thing, just like everybody else. Just like Roan.

When she got done, her chest was heaving, and her skin was shining with sweat. She got a standing ovation from the crowd, and she waved at them sweetly as they rained money on the stage. When she disappeared behind the curtain that time, it was over. First headline performance in the books. And Bellamy _finally_ took his eyes off the stage.

Behind him, Murphy sounded similarly dumbfounded when he said, "Damn." He poured another drink, either for himself or Bellamy, and said, "I mean, I love my girlfriend, but . . . _damn_."

Bellamy took the shot glass and downed it, not sure how many more of these shows from Clarke Griffin he could take before he just . . . went crazy. He felt like she was doing things to him that no girl had ever done before, and that was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

...

"Great job tonight, Clarke," Harper complimented back in the dressing room. "I don't know how any of us are supposed to compete with that."

"Oh, stop." Clarke knew she'd put on a good show tonight, but Harper was still way more advanced when it came to all the spins and tricks she could do.

"No, seriously." Smiling, Harper waved and left the room. "Later."

"Bye." Clarke took a look at her reflection in the vanity mirror, wondering how she'd gotten here. Back in high school, she and the cheerleaders had been lucky to get anyone to come to their performance at the fall kickoff pep rally. Not because they'd been bad or anything, because they hadn't been. But if it didn't involve people throwing or dribbling a ball, people in Arkadia didn't care. Now here she was in a strip club in New York City, packing the whole room.

"I think they'd rather see you again than me," Roma mumbled as she headed out onto the stage.

 _They probably would,_ Clarke thought, smiling a bit sadly. Poor Roma. It was no secret to anyone who worked there that she and her family were barely making ends meet. She was working more than any of the rest of them, mostly because she had to. She wasn't pulling in the money she used to, and Clarke was really starting to worry that Anya might end up firing her.

 _Time to go,_ she decided, gathering up all of her things. She put on her coat and her winter boots, because it was pretty damn cold and slick out there. When she left the dressing room and had only taken a few steps through the studio, a raspy, "Hello, Clarke," stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Roan," she squeaked out, startled. God, how creepy was this? He was just standing back there, hands in his pockets, apparently waiting for her. "What're you doing back here?"

Slowly shuffling forward, he said, "I just wanted to congratulate you on a great performance."

She wasn't about to thank him for that. It meant something coming from Harper and Roma, and it would mean something coming from Bellamy or even Murphy or Niylah. But from Roan . . . it just made her skin crawl. "You're not supposed to be back here," she informed him.

He shrugged flippantly.

"And you don't care," she registered. Great. So she was in a back room with a guy she definitely _didn't_ trust. "Well, there's another girl dancing now," she said, taking a few steps backward. "You should go watch her."

Closing the space between them, he murmured, "I'd rather stay back here with you."

A fearful shiver raced up her spine. "Well, I'm leaving," she told him, trying to walk right past him.

"Stick around for a minute," he implored, grabbing her arm to stop her. "Please."

 _But I don't want to,_ she thought, wishing she'd left with Harper. Safety in numbers and all that.

"So how much money did you make tonight?" he asked her, not letting go of her wrist.

She hadn't bothered to stop and count yet, but her wallet was bursting. "A lot." Whatever it was was probably pocket change to him.

Cocking his head to the side, he grinned. "It's fun being Number One, isn't it?"

 _Number One?_ She shuddered inwardly, wary to take on that title considering what had happened to the last girl who'd had it. "Look, I really need to go," she said, jerking her wrist from his grasp. She hurriedly made her way across the room.

"Looks like Bellamy's black eye's a lot better," he said suddenly.

She froze, tensing up. _Bellamy . . ._

"I think it'll take a little longer to fully heal, though."

For some reason, even though he hadn't uttered a threat, there was just something about the _way_ he said that that left Clarke feeling unsettled. Just as unsettled as his presence in this back room did. Slowly turning around, she asked, "You're still gonna leave him alone, right?"

Roan thought about it for a moment, then walked forward. "Well, that's the thing. I _want_ to. But I think I'm gonna need a little more in return."

She rolled her eyes exasperatedly. "What do you mean?"

"From you, Clarke." He stopped right in front of her, eyes roaming up and down the length of her body, and . . . she started to feel afraid. Like really, truly afraid and not just freaked out.

"No," she said decisively, hoping he wouldn't push it. "That kiss was a one-time thing. It's not happening again."

Pressing his lips together tightly, he exhaled. "Look out at the bar," he said.

Frowning, confused, she turned her back to him and slowly crept over to the door. She looked out and saw Bellamy sitting right where he'd been when she'd danced, but there were two men to his left now, neither of whom was _really_ watching Roma, both of whom made the briefest of eye contact with her before glancing back up at the stage.

"You see those two guys next to Bellamy?" Roan seethed as he slithered up behind her. "Those are my guys, the same two who laid into him the other night."

Her stomach clenched as she watched Bellamy sitting there downing a beer, no clue at all that the same guys who had attacked him were now right there beside him.

"All I have to do is say the word, and they'll do it again, worse this time," Roan threatened. "Of course . . . it doesn't _have_ to be that way."

She felt tears sting her eyes as she imagined what might happen to him. Sure, a black eye and some hurt ribs were bad, but those things would heal. There were other ways to hurt him that wouldn't. And even though she had faith that Bellamy could hold his own in a fight . . . it'd be two on one. And those guys were the same size as him, maybe even a little bigger.

Slowly, resignedly, she turned around and asked, "What do you want?"

"Just another kiss," he answered innocently.

" _Just_ another kiss?" Did he have any idea how repulsive that had been for her the first time? She hadn't kissed anyone except her boyfriend for over two years, and now she felt like she had to kiss him.

"Well . . . maybe a little more than that."

She inhaled sharply, fearing what he might have in mind.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he promised, taking her hand, leading her away from the door. "I'm not gonna do anything you don't give me permission to do." Backing her up against the wall, he leaned forward, enveloping her body with his larger one. "Can I kiss you, Clarke?" he asked, ironically politely. "Can I hold you?"

Her bottom lip quivered with doubt. What if he didn't stop at a kiss?

"Or should I tell my guys to go wait for Bellamy at his car?" he added menacingly.

She blinked back her tears, determined not to see him let her cry. She didn't want to seem weak, not in front of him. "You can kiss me," she told him, reluctantly granting him the permission he'd been seeking.

"Good girl," he whispered, already leaning in. The minute his mouth touched hers, she had to fight the urge to recoil. It wasn't like there was anywhere to go. There was a wall behind her and him in front of her. She quite literally felt trapped there, and it was a horrible feeling. All she could do was turn her face to the side, but that didn't stop him. If anything, it spurred him on. He kissed her cheek, the underside of her jaw, her neck. She didn't bother to roll her head to the side, just stood there, letting him suck on her skin too forcefully. He'd probably leave a mark, one she'd have to keep concealed from both Finn and Bellamy tomorrow.

Roan's large, imposing hands found their way to her waist, holding her squarely in place, and she didn't like the feel of them. His touch, much like his kiss, was too forceful, too aggressive. There was nothing soft or gentle about it, so there was no way she could possibly just close her eyes and forget that it was him making out with her. As much as she wanted to just go somewhere else for a minute, her mind kept her right there.

When he started to try to nudge his knee in between her legs, she quickly shoved him back a bit. "No, stop," she said, not willing to let him have _that_ much. Just because she'd showed off everything tonight didn't mean that _anything_ was for him.

"Good enough," he declared, backing up. "See you around."

Still leaning back against that wall, she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves after he was gone. Her heart felt like it was beating a hundred miles a minute, and not in a good way. Her hands were clammy, and she felt like she could start crying any second. But she didn't. She held herself together, readjusted her shirt, and pulled her long hair over her shoulder to conceal the side of her neck.

She walked out into the club just in time to see Roan leaving. The guys at the bar got up and followed not far behind him, and for the first time, Bellamy seemed to notice them. He watched them leave intently, as if something were clicking in his brain. He tensed up, too, and she could tell . . . he knew. He realized he'd been sitting there next to the same guys who had beaten him up.

"Hey," she said softly as she approached him. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he said, even though he probably wasn't. "You?"

She forced as much of a smile as she could and nodded. Even though she wasn't alright, either. Neither one of them was being completely honest with the other right now, because neither one of them wanted the other to worry.

"You did good," he told her. "I mean, I still don't think you should be . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head. "But you did good."

Oh, yeah. Just as she'd suspected, it was a completely different compliment coming from him.

"Why didn't you tell me you were taking everything off this time, though?" he asked.

"Because . . ." She stepped in front of him, standing in between his legs, placing one hand on both of his thighs. "I didn't want you to try to talk me out of it. We both know you would've."

"And we both know it wouldn't have worked," he added. "I've tried talking you out of a lot of things."

He had. He really had. He'd told her to stay away from this place, to stay away from Roan, but she hadn't listened. And she was really starting to feel like she was in the thick of it now. "It's okay," she assured him. "I was completely safe . . . up there." Backstage, on the other hand . . . that had been a different story.

"You want a ride home?" he asked her.

Oh, did she ever. The thought of sitting next to him in that run-down car of his . . . it sounded safe and it sounded comfortable, and it was exactly where she wanted to be. So she nodded mutely.

"Yeah?" he said. He slid off his stool and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Come on, let's go."

God, she was so happy to leave.

That night, she got in the shower, too impatient to fill up the bathtub. She scrubbed at her neck, trying to forget the feel or Roan's mouth there. She lathered up her sides, trying to block out the memory of his hands. She didn't feel . . . dirty, per say, but she didn't exactly feel clean, either. And that wasn't a good feeling.

...

Bellamy _had_ to jack off when he got home. No question about it. He got in the shower and got straight to work, pumping his cock feverishly, letting himself do what all sorts of other guys were probably doing tonight when he thought about how sexy Clarke had looked up there tonight, how round and supple her breasts were, how gorgeous the curve of her ass was. He let himself imagine it was her tight pussy around his shaft instead of his hand.

God, he wanted to fuck her.

He was able to cum pretty quick, then relax and finish out his shower. When he plodded out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, someone knocked on the door. Getting his hopes up, he threw it open, hoping to see Clarke standing on the other side. But it was another blonde girl he knew well, one he _hadn't_ been thinking about in the shower: Bree.

"Hey, stranger," she said, grinning at him flirtatiously.

"What're you doing here?" Back when they'd been sort of dating, it hadn't been unusual for her to show up at his place out of the blue, but nowadays, it was.

"I missed you," she said, coming inside without an invite. "Especially . . ." She glanced down at his crotch. ". . . certain parts of you."

Oh, of course she did. But that certain part wasn't exactly excited to see her. She looked good, he supposed, but . . . not as good as Clarke.

"Look, I just got out of the shower," he said. "I'm tired."

"Since when has that ever stopped you?" She kicked the door shut and then leaned against him, splaying her hands against his chest. "How do you want me?" she asked, rubbing against him wantonly.

Well, that depended on if he even wanted her at all. A few months ago, he would have undressed her and put her on all fours. But now . . .

She pushed him back onto the couch, hovering above him. "I could strip for you," she offered. "I hear that's what you're into these days."

Shit, did everyone know? Or was Bree just more perceptive than he'd ever given her credit for?

Swinging her legs over his lap, she straddled him and sat down, rolling her hips against his. "I know you missed this," she said, bending her head to capture his mouth with hers.

He kissed her, more out of habit than anything else. Did he miss this? No, not really. Sure, it was nice getting laid on a regular basis, but . . . he didn't miss Bree. She'd always been more of a pain in the ass more than anything else.

But she was blonde, like Clarke. And pretty, like Clarke. And he couldn't lie that there was a very small, very perverted part of him that wanted to lay her down and just pretend that she was Clarke for one night.

"Make me your bitch, Bellamy," she murmured against his mouth.

 _That_ took him right out of the moment, not that they were having much of one. Clarke would never say that. When they— _if_ they ever hooked up, that wasn't what she'd be to him. At all.

Frowning, he grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed her away.

"What?" she asked confusedly.

God, was he really going to sit here and make out with someone he was only marginally attracted to anymore, someone who had always aggravated him more than she'd impressed him? "We're not doing this," he decided, letting her down bluntly.

She stared at him in disbelief and huffed, "You're kidding me, right?"

No, he wasn't. To prove that point. He lifted her off his lap, got up, and went to the door, opening it for her. She'd locked that door on him once, the very act that had spawned his relationship with Clarke in the first place. But now that he knew what it was like to feel something for somebody, to _really_ feel something, he was happy to show Bree out.

"Fuck you, Bellamy," she grumbled, giving him a shove on her way out.

He smiled as he shut the door, pleased to be the one kicking _her_ out this time.


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26_

Clarke felt like a zombie as she moved her eggs around the frying pan the next morning. She was so out of it that she didn't even see or hear Finn come up to her. "Hey," he said, squeezing her sides.

"Oh, hey," she said, startling a bit. "You scared me."

"Sorry," he said, leaning against the counter. "And, uh, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your big show last night. I tried to cut out of work early, but it ran long."

"That's okay." She turned down the heat on the burner, content to just leave the eggs on low until she was actually hungry enough to eat them.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Good." They could have had this conversation last night, but she'd been in bed pretending to be asleep already by the time he got home.

"You make some money?"

"Yeah, it's on the desk."

He walked over to their computer desk, eyes widening in disbelief. "Holy shit, Clarke," he said, picking up the large wad of bills. "You made all this?" He fanned the money out, clearly in amazed, and said, "I am so proud of you." He came back towards her and gave her a big kiss. "How much is it?"

"I don't know, I haven't counted. But I think probably about three thousand," she estimated.

"Three . . ." He trailed off in awe. "This is great."

"Had to get completely naked to get it," she mumbled, "but . . ."

"You know what I was thinking?" he cut in. "We really need another car. Let's face it: We both hate public transportation. Maybe this could be our down payment."

"A car?" she echoed. It probably wasn't a bad idea, but cars were expensive. Unless they got a used one. "Do you have anything in mind?"

"Yeah, I've been looking at this brand new Viper . . ."

Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

"Kidding," he joked. "I _have_ been looking at a Chevy Impala, though."

She didn't know anything about cars, but she knew her boyfriend well enough to know he wouldn't want a used one. "New?" she guessed.

"Yeah, it's about twenty-eight thousand."

She sighed, absentmindedly moving the scrambled eggs around in the frying pan. "That's a lot of money."

"You just made three-thousand," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's not gonna be like that every night. Last night was _the_ night, you know, the big one."

"Well, we can make payments," he proposed.

"I mean, it's not a bad idea, but we still have rent and utilities and groceries and-"

"I know, I know," he interrupted again. "But we need another car."

Even though it would have been nice to set some of that money aside for rent, she sighed in resignation and said, "Sure, make a down payment."

"Alright." He smiled at her and said, "Good job, babe," giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. She couldn't help but flinch a bit, not because of anything _he_ did, but because . . . Roan. She was still feeling all unsettled about that.

"You alright?" Finn asked, staring at her curiously.

He may not have always been the world's most attentive boyfriend, but Finn knew her well, just like she knew him. He could tell something was up. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" she said, playing it off like it was nothing. She couldn't tell Finn what had happened with Roan because then he'd question why she was doing so much for Bellamy. And she couldn't tell Bellamy because . . . well, he'd probably lash out at Roan.

"You look . . . different," Finn remarked contemplatively.

 _Do I?_ she wondered. Had letting Roan kiss her and put his hands on her tarnished her somehow? She hoped not.

Luckily, that was all Finn said about it. He shrugged, pushing any concerns he may have had out of his mind, and headed into the bathroom for his morning shower.

Clarke halfheartedly used her spatula to lift the eggs out of the pan and onto her plate. Maybe she'd just let him have this breakfast. She really wasn't hungry.

Once Finn had left, she texted Bellamy about going running. He told her to give him fifteen minutes, and unlike Finn, who always ran a half an hour behind, he was actually five minutes early when he knocked on her door.

They ran their usual route, but it felt a lot longer today than it normally did, mostly because it was so cold outside. Her lungs burned icily with every breath, and the wind slashed her nose, cheeks, and ears.

"Okay, I am officially _freezing_ ," she said as they came to a stop at a street corner, waiting for the crosswalk light to switch over. "Why did we decide to run today?"

"Because we gotta stay in shape," he said, jogging in place.

"Screw that. I can't even feel my fingers."

"That's 'cause you don't have any gloves on."

"Neither do you," she pointed out.

"Yeah, but I have big man hands. Look at your hands." He stopped moving and picked up one of her hands in one of his, then did the same with the other. Suddenly, he was bringing them together and bringing them up to his mouth, where he blew hot air onto and into them. He rubbed them with his own, circulating some heat into them, and asked, "Better?"

She couldn't say anything for a second, because all she could think about was the fact that she'd technically felt Bellamy's mouth just now. Just a little bit. "Yeah."

He blew on them again, then grazed his thumb over the backs of her fingers. He slowly lowered their hands, keeping hold of them, and smiled at her.

 _I'm holding his hands,_ she thought, not sure why she even felt like that mattered. _I'm holding Bellamy's big man hands._

"Come on," he said, nodding his head across the street. "Let's go warm you up." He walked with her across the street when the pedestrian signal was on, still keeping one of his hands clasped with hers. Clarke didn't even know where they were going until he led her down the block into a coffee shop.

 _Thank God,_ she thought, inhaling the tempting aroma. A hot beverage would hit the spot.

"Hey, look who it is," she said when she spotted Murphy and Emori sitting at one of the tables together.

"Hey, guys," Bellamy said, finally letting go of her hand as they approached the table.

"Oh, hey," Murphy said. "You braved the cold, huh?"

Bellamy pulled out her chair for her and said, "Yeah, this one's struggling, though."

"It's my first New York winter, okay?" she said, taking a seat. "Give me a break."

He sat down next to her, making a face. "Wait a minute, wait a minute, didn't you once say to me, 'I've done Kansas winters, Bellamy. There's nothing I can't handle.'" His made his voice higher-pitched as he mimicked her.

"I may have said that," she mumbled in admittance.

"I hate this kind of weather, too," Emori empathized, "but Murphy always drags me out in it."

"I like it," he said with a shrug. "It's better than bein' too hot."

"Hmm, I wouldn't know," Bellamy said, looking at Clarke. "I've always been hot."

She whacked his shoulder playfully.

"You want something?" he asked her.

"Yeah." She needed something to help take away the cold.

"What do you want?"

"I don't know, whatever has the most foam."

He rolled his eyes at that response but got up nonetheless to head up to the counter.

"So cute," she thought she heard Emori say, but she couldn't be sure.

Clearing her throat, she asked her former coworker, "So how's Dropship?"

"Same. Horrible," Emori groaned.

"Don't worry, babe," Murphy said, giving her leg a supportive squeeze, "you won't work there forever."

"No. Probably just for the next five to ten years." She sighed heavily. "Whatever. I hear you're having lots of success at the club, Clarke."

"Yeah, she lit it up last night," Murphy said. "Hey, how'd Bellamy feel about that?"

 _Bellamy?_ Did it really matter how Bellamy felt? He wasn't . . . they weren't even . . . "I don't know," she answered. "Fine, I guess."

Emori studied her curiously and asked, "So are you and Bellamy . . ." She didn't actually say the words, but Clarke knew what she was getting at.

"No," she answered quickly, "I still have a boyfriend."

"Huh." Emori . . . sounded oddly surprised to hear that.

Bellamy returned to the table then with a very foamy cup in his hand. "I just got you an espresso," he said. "I didn't know what else to get."

"Thanks." She noticed that he hadn't gotten himself anything, and she wondered if that was because he didn't have enough cash on hand. "I can pay you back."

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

"Wow, Bellamy," Emori said exaggeratedly, "that's such a _friendly_ thing for a _boy_ like you to do."

Clarke sent her a sharp glare. What the hell? He was boy. And he was her friend. Nothing more than that.

"That's probably our cue to leave," Murphy said, pushing his chair back. Both he and Emori stood up, and as he left, he grinned from ear to ear and proclaimed, "We're gonna go home and get it on."

"Thanks for publicizing that, John." Emori pushed against her boyfriend's back, hustling him out of there.

"Later," Clarke said, waving. When they were gone, she turned to Bellamy and asked, "Murphy's name is John?"

"Yeah, you didn't know that?"

"No." She took a sip of her espresso, savoring the taste. "Mmm. Thanks for the coffee."

"Gettin' warmer now?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. He must have not even realized he'd done it, but his arm came back to rest on her chair, effectively wrapping around her shoulders.

"Yeah," she said, trying not to react to the maneuver. "Getting warmer."

...

When Bellamy showed up to rehearsal that afternoon, the weather had worsened. He hadn't been able to get his car to start, so he was late, and he assumed Shumway would chew his ass out for it. Luckily for him, though, when he showed up, there were dozens of other people there. Shumway looked like he was too busy trying to get them to shut up and focus to even notice Bellamy walk in.

"Whoa," he said, sidling up next to Gina, who was standing in the aisle of the theater with her arms crossed over her chest. "This is different."

"He finally cast all the minor roles, so we have to rehearse with them for the next few weeks," she explained.

Oh, this was gonna be a picnic. He and Gina were going to carry this play, but all these glorified extras were going to be clamoring for their moment in the spotlight. Not that he could blame them. He did the same thing when he wasn't a lead.

One girl completely ignored Shumway as he was telling them what they were supposed to be doing in a particular scene, and she ran down the stage towards Bellamy. "Oh my god, are you Johnny Depp?" she babbled.

Did he fucking look like Johnny Depp? "No."

"Oh." She pouted, but it didn't take her long to start smiling again. "You're still hot, though."

Gina grunted. "Honey, don't even bother. Trust me." She took the girl's arm and led her back up to the stage and away from him.

It was a nightmare rehearsal, one that had Bellamy wanting to blow his brains out by the end of it. These people had about one line each, if that, and they couldn't even remember them. He heard so many different ones shout, "Line! Line!" that he couldn't even distinguish one voice from the next. They got in his way as he moved around the stage, didn't hit their marks, and one of them even nearly destroyed a set piece.

Thank God Shumway ordered Subway for lunch, because they were all starving and needed a break. Gina was mingling with some of the other actresses, so that left Bellamy on his own. Not that she would have wanted to sit there and have lunch with him anyway. The young girl who had been flirting with him earlier came back and flirted some more. She seemed more interested in watching him load up his sandwich than she was in making her own.

"This is so cool being on a real stage with real actors," she said.

Just the fact that she'd even referred to him as a real actor said it all. "First part, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm _so_ excited. Maybe it'll be my big break."

He wasn't about to crush her dreams, but . . . her one line was, 'Alyssa, are you coming or not?' This wasn't going to be her big break for anything. "Maybe," he said, hoping she'd have better luck in this industry than he'd had these past five years. She was a little too skinny, a little too bleach blonde, but . . . she could probably at least book a few photo shoots or something.

"So have you ever acted with Johnny Depp before?" she asked him.

"No."

"Brad Pitt?"

"No." She had to know he wasn't that A list, right?

Apparently not, because she also tried, "Channing Tatum?"

Just to switch it up, he answered, "Yeah, actually."

"Seriously?"

"No." The closest he'd gotten to any celebrity contact had been his short stint as George Clooney's waiter back in L.A.

"You're funny," she said, scooting in close to him. "I like that in a guy. Do you have a girlfriend?"

God, she was forward. And just not at all someone he was interested in. "Yeah," he lied again, content to just leave it at a lie this time.

Frowning, she scooted away a bit. "That's too bad."

He smirked inwardly, wishing Clarke was there so he could get her to play along. She would have pretended to be his girlfriend just so this chick would leave him alone, surely. And it wouldn't have been a hard lie to sell.

...

That night, the wind picked up. The snow began to fall, just steadily at first, but then faster and faster. Clarke didn't pay it much attention until the lights blinked out. She was just sitting there watching TV one second, and then the next second . . . total blackness. She looked outside and saw that lights were out as far down and across the street as she could see. She got out a flashlight and set it on the kitchen counter facing upward, just so she had something to see by. But the light did little to help the cold, which started to affect her around the thirty minute mark of no electricity. She put on sweatpants over her leggings, two pairs of socks, and a sweatshirt over her long-sleeved t-shirt, but it just kept getting colder and colder in there. When she checked the temperature on her phone, it said it was below zero outside.

Bellamy texted her to ask if she needed anything, and she desperately texted back, _HEAT!_

 _I'll come over,_ was his swift response.

 _Bring your lighter,_ she told him. She had a handful of candles but no matches or anything to light them with.

Right after that, Finn called as she was pacing around the living room, trying to warm herself up. "Hey, babe, where are you?" she answered the phone.

"I'm still at work," he replied. "You're home, right?"

"Yeah." Thank God for that. She didn't think she could have driven out in this. "The power's out."

"It's still at the office," he said. "It's pretty bad out there, though. I think I might just sit tight here, try to wait it out."

"Good idea." She didn't like the thought of him being out on the road right now, either.

"You gonna be alright?" he asked her.

"Yeah, I'll just bundle up, hunker down." She shivered, blowing on her hands the way Bellamy had earlier today. It wasn't the same as when he did it, though.

"Alright. Call me if you need anything," he said. "I love you."

"Love you, too," she said, teeth chattering a bit. "Bye." With shaking fingers, she ended the call, setting her phone aside. Even its screen felt cold.

A knock at her door caused her to breathe a sigh of relief, because she really hoped Bellamy would bring some kind of portable heater with him.

"Oh, thank God," she said dramatically when she opened the door and saw that he had something in his hand.

"Sorry, I had to scrounge around for some batteries," he said, lifting up what certainly _looked_ like a portable heater. "I lost the power cord for this thing."

"It'll help, though?" She shut the door, shivering.

"Oh, yeah, it'll help." He set it down on the floor in the living room, turning a few knobs to try to get it going. A small red light came on and started blinking.

"God, it feels like the Arctic in here," she complained, wrapping her arms around herself. "How long do you think the power's gonna be out?"

"Probably all night," he answered.

"Oh, great. I'm gonna be an icicle in the morning."

"I won't let you turn into an icicle, Clarke," he promised, whacking the side of the heater. The light stopped blinking and turned green. "There, see?" he said, standing up. "You feel that?"

She bent down close to the heater, putting her hands in front of it. "That's nice."

"And I got my lighter, too." He whipped it out of his pocket and flicked it to get a flame.

"Light 'em up," she said, motioning to the candles on the coffee table.

He lit all four of the candles, and by the time he was done, it was actually sort of a relaxing little ambiance in there. "Hey, that looks kinda nice," he observed.

It did. She decided to shut the flashlight off to conserve its battery.

"And you look like you're freezing," he said.

"I am." She walked towards him, arms still wrapped around herself, still shivering.

"Come here." He put his arm around her and ushered her over to the couch. He sat down, then motioned for her to do the same. "Lay down," he said.

 _On the couch?_ she thought. _With you?_ She didn't question it too much, though, because she was just so, _so_ cold. She lay down, letting him settle in behind her, feeling an automatic warmth from his body that these layers of clothes just couldn't provide.

"I got you," he said, draping a blanket over them.

She folded her arms up under her head and curled her knees up towards her chest, trying to make her body as compact as possible. Bellamy's arms wrapped around her midsection, holding her close. Wherever he touched, heat followed.

"Talk to me about something warm," he told her.

"Something warm?" Did she even _remember_ warm things right now?

"Yeah. Like summer," he suggested. "What'd you do this past summer?"

"Worked at the drive-in movie theater," she answered lamely.

"Besides that."

"Hung out with Finn."

"Besides that."

What else was there? Those had been the two main things. "Resented my parents."

"Okay, what'd you do during the summer when you were a kid then?" he asked, switching tactics.

She smiled, remembering one glorious summer back in middle school when she hadn't had a care in the world, where everything had just been an endless supply of fun. "This one year, my dad went out and got a slip and slide," she told him. "And everyone in the neighborhood came over. We made a party out of it."

"Sounds fun," he said, warm breath tickling the back of her neck.

"Yeah. And a couple years ago I job-shadowed my mom a lot. Back when I thought I'd be a doctor like her."

"Sounds . . ." He thought about it for a moment. ". . . less fun."

She laughed a little, wondering if anyone would job-shadow her mom this summer. She knew there were a couple other kids in the high school who wanted to go to med school someday.

"What about you?" she asked him, letting her eyes fall shut. "What'd you do?"

"Well, one time, I wandered off and ended up gettin' stuck in a swamp," he said. "I found a bullfrog, though, so it was worth it."

"Totally." The swamp. A bullfrog. Such a Louisiana boy. "Did you keep it?"

"I took it home, but my mom wouldn't let me have any pets. So I had to let it go."

"Mmm." Now that she was starting to warm up, she was feeling pretty comfortable on that couch. And feeling comfortable made her feel sleepy. "My mom only let me have a goldfish. It died the day after I got it."

He chuckled, his chest shaking a bit behind her back. "Great story."

"Yeah." She felt herself nodding off, unable to stop it, but she tried to keep talking anyway. "Did you ever go on—go on, like, vacation or anything?" she managed to ask. "You and your mom and Octavia?" Her words were slowing down now, starting to blend together.

"No," he said as he rubbed his hands all over her arms. "Sometimes I'd take Octavia to the pool or . . . to go see a movie or something. But that's really all we could afford."

That was so sad. But at least he'd done fun stuff for her. "What's your favorite movie?" she asked, trying so hard to stay awake.

" _Fight Club,_ " he answered without hesitation. "Or _The Godfather._ The second one."

"Hmm." She'd never seen either of those.

"What about you?"

Even though she was about to fall asleep, that one was easy. " _The Wizard of Oz._ "

He snorted. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I love it." Sure, it was a bit stereotypical for a small town Kansas girl to like the classic movie about the small town Kansas girl, but it was a classic for a reason. Picturing Dorothy in her red, sparkly shoes, she quoted, "There's no place . . . like home," barely able to get the words out.

"Clarke?" His voice sounded fainter now. "You're falling asleep."

"No, I'm not," she claimed, just _so_ comfortable.

"Yeah, you are. Clarke?"

"Mmm . . ." She knew she probably shouldn't fall asleep there with him. This was different than sleeping in his bed or sleeping with him at the hotel or falling asleep with her head in his lap when she'd been sick. This was one small couch and the two of them, which meant he was spooning up behind her, so close. But she felt tired, finally warm again, and she couldn't move.

She didn't want to.

...

It wasn't Bellamy's intention to lie down with Clarke. The whole point of him stopping by had been to get that heater going, warm her place up. But the girl had literally been shivering, so what was he supposed to do, just let her suffer?

Plus, it didn't suck cuddling up with Clarke Griffin.

She fell asleep relatively quickly once she got warm, and he just lay there with her, pretending for a while that this was something it wasn't. He pretended that they weren't huddled together for warmth, that they were instead lying there like that just because they wanted to. He imagined that the candles were more of a romantic thing than they actually were. And he let her warm him up, too, because she wasn't the only one who'd been cold.

He woke up about an hour or two after falling asleep, he figured. (The only clock he had to go by was the one up on the wall, which he could barely see.) Clarke hadn't moved and was still dozing soundly, but unfortunately, the heater had quit running.

Carefully untangling himself from her, he got up off the couch and crawled down on the floor to try to get it going again. It was an old thing, something he'd picked up at the thrift store years ago and only used a couple of times. He wasn't sure which knobs to turn or how far to turn them, so he just whacked the side of the thing again, and the green light came back on. The heat started coming back out.

The candles had flickered out, too, so he relit them. They flooded her skin in a warm glow, and he couldn't help but stare at her. She didn't have any makeup on right now. Didn't need any. She looked just as pretty lying there sleeping as she did when she was dancing up on stage.

Kneeling down beside the couch, he tenderly stroked her hair out of her face. "You're beautiful, you know that?" he whispered, sort of wishing she could hear him, sort of glad she couldn't.

God, he wanted to kiss her. But doing that now . . . that wouldn't be right.

Unfortunately for him, the front door opened, and Finn shuddered loudly, making his presence known. Bellamy stood up, backing away from Clarke a bit, and waited while Finn took off his coat and shoes.

"Hey, Bellamy," he said as he came around the dividing wall.

"Hey." Thank God he'd woken up just now. This was a hell of a lot easier to explain than spooning Clarke would have been. "I just brought this heater over earlier, 'cause she was really cold."

"Yeah, that's great," Finn said. "Thanks."

 _It warmed her up,_ he thought. I _warmed her up._ "She's been out for a while, so . . . she's better now." He looked down at Clarke, happy to see that she looked completely comfortable and content.

"Well, don't go outside," Finn cautioned him. "It's a fuckin' blizzard out there. I don't know how I even got home."

"Yeah, it sounds pretty bad." The wind was still howling, so he could only imagine how much snow was blowing around.

"Well, thanks for coming over," Finn said. "You want your heater back?"

"No, I'll be alright." His place was going to be an igloo, probably, but he could just huddle up under the blankets and tough it out for the rest of the night. "You guys can hold onto it."

"Thanks, man," Finn said, giving him a clap on the back.

 _Yeah, no problem,_ Bellamy thought. Really, cuddling with Clarke as no problem _at all_.

He started for the door slowly, wishing he didn't have to leave, wishing this guy hadn't come home tonight. When Finn bent down and kissed his girlfriend's forehead and said, "Goodnight, Princess," she stirred but didn't wake up. She did reach behind her, though, and part of Bellamy wondered if maybe she was reaching for him.


	27. Chapter 27

_Chapter 27_

Just _getting_ to rehearsal the day after the blizzard was a monumental challenge. The Mount Weather parking lot hadn't been plowed at all, so Bellamy could barely get his car out. And the streets were horrible, so he slid through a couple intersections, barely making it there in one piece.

He was the last one to show up, and for that, he was grateful, because Shumway was up on stage with the supporting cast, pacing back and forth, throwing his hands all about, talking a mile a minute. Gina wisely seemed to want to avoid all of that, so she sat in one of the audience seats on her phone.

"What's he losing his shit about?" Bellamy asked, sitting down next to her.

"Marcie got hurt," Gina replied.

"Who the hell's Marcie?"

"The girl playing the part of Caroline. Her car skidded on the way here today. She's gonna be alright, but she's got a cast on her leg now, so he's trying to rearrange parts."

Bellamy watched Shumway a little longer, sort of getting a laugh out of how fucking frazzled the guy was. But the truth was, the Caroline part, though not as vital as either of the lead roles, needed to be filled by somebody competent. And none of the people up on that stage quite fit the bill.

Getting up, Bellamy entertained a really out there idea as he approached his director. He tugged on the guy's arm, pulling him away from the stage, and said, "Hey, I know someone who could play the part."

"Who?" Shumway asked eagerly.

"My friend. She's been rehearsing with me. She knows all the lines."

Shumway glanced back over his shoulder at all the young, clueless actors already up on that stage, and told him, "Bring her in."

When he mentioned it to Clarke upon arriving home that afternoon, her initial reaction was . . . confusion. "But I'm not an actress," she pointed out.

"Neither are half the people he cast." Technically, she had more stage experience than most of the other people did. Just . . . a different kind of stage. "Look, it's a small part, ten to fifteen lines max."

"But Caroline . . . she's the bitchy girl." Clarke made a face. "Nobody likes her."

"Well . . ." He shrugged, not about to argue that. Every story had protagonists and antagonists. Caroline was definitely the latter.

She contemplated it for a moment, then nodded affirmatively. "Okay, I'll do it," she decided. "I'll go tomorrow and audition."

"Thanks." He knew Shumway was probably going to bring in a few other girls, too, but hopefully Clarke would outshine them. He kind of loved the thought of being up on stage with her, even though she wouldn't be playing his love interest

"What's your director like?" she inquired. "Is he nice?"

Nice . . . wasn't exactly a word he'd use in connection with Shumway. But he didn't want to make Clarke nervous, so he lied, "Yeah," hoping he wouldn't be too much of a jerk to her.

...

"Blonde girl, you're up."

Clarke looked from side to side, assuming she was the blonde girl he was talking to. The girl to her left was brunette, the girl to her right a redhead.

"It's Clarke, actually," she told the director, taking center stage. "My name."

Shumway craned his neck around to ask Bellamy, "This is the one you brought?"

"Just give her a chance," Bellamy said, smiling at her.

Sighing overdramatically, the director motioned grandly to Clarke and declared, "Speak."

 _Ordering me around like I'm a dog or something,_ she thought, but she swallowed her pride and recited the first line of the scene they were using for the audition. "Just face it, Alyssa," she said to Gina, channeling her best inner mean girl. "You aren't the girl he's supposed to be with anymore. That title belongs to me."

"I'm sold!" Shumway exclaimed, much to her surprise. "You got the part."

Behind her, the other five girls who had shown up to audition groaned.

"That's it?" she asked, surprised that he wanted her to do the rest of the scene.

"I'm desperate," he muttered.

"Gee, thanks." She had to bite her tongue to keep from saying more as Shumway told everyone to take five and get ready to take it from the top of the second act when they returned. Bellamy met her at the bottom of the stage, and she didn't bite her tongue with him. "This guy's an ass," she said.

"Most directors are," he acknowledged. "Thanks for doing this."

"Yeah, no problem." She wanted this play of his to be as good as it could be, and really, the other girls who had read for the part had been _so_ bad. They didn't even have the lines memorized.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke caught Bellamy's co-star giving them a look. Not an angry one or even a jealous one, actually. Just . . . kind of sad. Like maybe she was still harboring a crush on Bellamy or something.

"I'll be back," Clarke told him, deciding to go talk to Gina. The poor girl couldn't very well escape her feelings for him if she was seeing him for rehearsal nearly every single day. That had to be tough.

"Hey, Gina," she greeted, smiling at her. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know. My car won't start, I'm behind on my bills, and I'm nervous as hell for opening night of this play," Gina ranted. "But other than that, I'm great."

Clarke recalled her first night up on stage at Grounders, howutterly _terrifying_ that had been. But once she'd gotten out there, the nerves had started to fade. Gina would be fine, too. "Well, at least Christmas is coming up," she said, trying to think of something positive, something to lift this girl's spirits. "Do you get to spend time with your family?"

If possible, Gina looked even sadder then. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm not really close with my family."

 _Something we have in common then,_ Clarke thought. Reality was starting to sink in that, for the first time in her life, she wouldn't be opening up gifts with her mom and dad this year. It was kind of surreal to think about. "Yeah, I can . . . I can relate," she sputtered quietly. Maybe she'd get more than a text from them, though, more than she'd gotten for Thanksgiving.

"Congratulations on getting the part," Gina told her. "I'm sure Bellamy's really glad."

"Yeah." Clarke fought the urge to frown, not quite sure what she was implying by that. But since she'd brought him up, she sensed a segue. "Hey, I'm—I'm really sorry things didn't work out between you and him," she said, not even sure if it was her _place_ to say anything.

At first, Gina just smiled at her, but then she snorted and shook her head. "No, you're not."

Clarke blinked in confusion. "Why would you say that?"

Gina just shrugged as if it were obvious. "Because you like him, too." She didn't say anything else, just left Clarke with that as she turned and walked off.

Clarke looked over her shoulder at Bellamy, who was now fending off the unwanted attention of one of the extras. She was _clearly_ flirting with him, and he was clearly not interested.

 _Every girl likes him,_ Clarke thought, trying to brush off what Gina had said. That was nothing new. That didn't mean . . .

It didn't mean anything.

...

For her second photo shoot for the Grounders Girls merchandise, Clarke felt more at ease in front of the camera than she had for the first one. Sure, the bikini they'd put her in was skimpy, little more than a couple of scraps of fabric held together by a few strings, but she felt confident that her body was looking better than last time thanks to all the working out she'd been doing. They straightened her hair for her and did her makeup, and it was all very sexy and glamorous.

Cage, true to his word, put that Roger guy in charge of the photo shoot instead of Finn. He snapped the photos a lot faster than Finn did, but he gave less direction. So she just stood in front of the beach background, jutting her hip out to the side, angling her body to show off her curves, trying to make that smoldering eye contact with the camera like professional models did.

Anya was there, of course, overseeing everything, making sure her vision came to life. "Clarke, you're not present," she said at one point. "You look like you're somewhere else. Be here, okay? Be in the moment."

 _Be in the moment,_ she thought, wondering if that would have been easier to do if Finn had been the photographer.

"Sultry," Roger instructed. "My camera lens should be fogged up photographing you."

Back in high school, she never would have imagined she could actually _be_ sultry, but she knew now that she could be. It was . . . it was just acting, really. A different kind of acting than she'd be doing in that play.

Thinking of the play made her think of Bellamy, and thinking of him made her think of . . . all sorts of things. Like the way he'd curled up with her on the couch last night, coiling his arms around her waist, holding her close. Her face must have taken on a different look when she did that, because Roger praised, "There, that's it. That's the stuff."

 _Sultry_ , she thought, closing her eyes as she thought about him some more. She thought about his hand on the small of her back when they'd rehearsed the dance scene the other night. She thought about the look in his eyes when he watched her dance.

"Oh, yes, Clarke, _gorgeous_!"

She remembered how close he'd stood behind her when they'd gone to the bowling alley and how it'd felt to have his arm around her at the coffee shop the other day.

"Just like that! Stunning, Clarke!"

She ran her hand through her hair, eyes still closed, moaning inwardly as she recalled how he'd lifted her cold fingers up to his mouth and blown on them to warm them up.

" _You like him, too,_ " Gina's voice echoed in her head.

"Okay, a little less porn star, a little more Girl Next Door," Anya interjected. "But keep that intensity."

She opened her eyes, letting out a breathy sigh, keeping her lips gently parted as she stared at the camera. Bellamy continued to weave through her mind, and since thoughts of him were eliciting the photos Anya and the photographer wanted, she didn't bother to push them away.

...

Even though she was well aware she was hovering, Clarke didn't really feel like just sitting at the bar or hanging out backstage. She followed Bellamy around as he served customers at the bar, and he worked so fast and so methodically that she couldn't keep up with what he was doing.

When there was finally a break in the customers, she asked, "So why are there three sinks back here?"

"Because you can clean a glass fast with three sinks," he replied.

She tilted her head to the side, not understanding how three sinks were any faster than one.

"This one's the soapy water, obviously," he said, motioning to the furthest right sink. "This one's the rinse, this one's the sanitizer." He pointed to the middle and left sinks respectively, then took a dirty glass and demonstrated for her. "You dunk it in the soapy water, bottom first."

"Why?" she asked.

"So no air bubbles get trapped inside," he explained. "Then you dunk it in the rinse to clean it off, then the sanitizer." He demonstrated that, too, then put the glass face down on a rack. "Then you set it out to dry."

Well, he'd certainly done that fast. She supposed everything had to be fast back there, especially when the club was crowded. "Can I try?"

He thought about it for a moment, probably hesitant to let a nineteen year old girl do the work of a bartender, but finally said, "Sure." He handed her another glass, and she did as he'd explained, dipping it into the farthest right sink basin first.

"You're not washin' dishes at home," he reminded her. "You gotta go faster than that."

She picked up the pace on the next two sinks and set her glass next to the one he'd just done on the drying rack.

"There you go," he said.

She could see how it would get repetitive, but since it was new to her, she was kind of into it. "Can I serve a drink to a customer?" she asked eagerly.

He groaned reluctantly but still relented. "Just once."

As a man approached the bar, she went up to him and cheerily greeted, "Hello, sir, what can I get for you?"

"Buttery Nipple, sweetheart," he replied.

Gasping, she held one hand over her chest. "Excuse me? That is _not_ appropriate."

"It's a shot," Bellamy informed her.

"Oh." She put her hand back down, feeling embarrassed.

"Butterscotch schnapps, Irish cream," Bellamy narrated as he grabbed two big bottles. Then he took a red tin and said, "We're gonna pour it in here." Holding both bottles by the neck, he poured them in at the same time, counting, "One, two, three," as he did so. "Then mix it up a bit." He swirled it around, then put a strainer on top of it. "Pour it out." Shot glass now full, he slid it across the counter to the customer. "There you go."

"Thanks," the man said, grabbing his drink and turning back around so he could watch Vivian dance.

"Couldn't he have just ordered a beer?" Clarke mumbled. That was something she would have been able to serve

Bellamy chuckled, shaking his head. "You shouldn't be back here anyway."

"I know. I just think it's interesting," she said. "It's like a new perspective on this place. Hey, maybe you should go get up on that pole sometime."

"Ah, I don't think this crowd would respond to me."

"Oh, don't be too sure." There were probably more bisexual guys here than anyone realized.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, alerting her to a text, and when she checked it . . . it was from Finn. He was actually home earlier tonight, for a change, and he wondered where she was.

She was actually kind of having fun learning this bartending stuff from Bellamy, but . . . if Anya saw her back behind that counter, she'd flip her lid. Besides, she had a chance to go spend some time with her boyfriend, so . . . that was what she needed to do.

"I gotta go," she said, pocketing her phone again.

"Alright," he said. "See you tomorrow?

"Yeah." She didn't have to attend tomorrow's rehearsal, but they could still go for their morning run. And if Finn was busy tomorrow night, then she'd probably just come here, maybe see if he could teach her how to make some more shots.

All she wanted to do when she got outside was get in her car and go home. It was cold outside, and she heard police sirens not far down the street. It wasn't a good night to be out, especially not alone.

"Hello, gorgeous."

She tensed when she heard that voice. That _awful_ voice, one that now automatically sent shivers up her spine. "Roan," she said, turning around. God, her car was just a few feet away. Maybe she should have kept walking, pretending not to hear him. "What're you doing out here?" she asked.

"Waiting for you."

Great, that was what she'd been afraid of. "I have to get home," she said, taking a few clumsy steps backward. "My boyfriend's waiting for me."

"And what about your boyfriend behind the bar?" Roan asked, eyes locked onto hers. "How's he doing?"

She stopped walking, and her stomach knotted up. Even though he hadn't threatened Bellamy just now, there was still something threatening about the way he said it, something menacing. Something that made her feel like, if she walked away from him right now, he'd make sure Bellamy was the one to suffer the consequences of it.

Grinning smugly, Roan opened the door to the backseat of his luxury vehicle and motioned for her to get in.

Every ounce of common sense in her body screamed at her not to do so. Little kids learned to avoid this at an early age. She wasn't an idiot; she knew Roan wasn't going to just sit in the car and talk with her. He was going to want . . . something.

Even though part of her wanted to just run back into that club and tell Bellamy what was happening, she hesitantly stepped down off the sidewalk and ducked under Roan's arm, climbing in the backseat. He shut the door, and she shuddered, so afraid of what she was getting herself into. What if he wanted to take her somewhere? She had her cell phone, so she could always call 911, but . . . she didn't want it to escalate to that point.

Thankfully, Roan didn't get in the driver's seat. He climbed into the back with her, but that was alarming in its own right. He angled his body towards hers and reached over to run his hand through her hair.

"I like spending time with you, you know that?" he said, trying to sound nice.

She didn't respond, just looked out the dark window, wondering just how tinted it was. Could anyone see inside? Or were they completely concealed to the outside world as long as they sat in there?

"Can you look at me?" he asked, almost as if he were trying to sound gentle.

God, she didn't want to. But she felt like, if she didn't, he might get more forceful with her. Lips trembling, she turned her head to look at his face. His self-satisfied, unsympathetic face. She'd already felt his wiry facial hair before, and she felt it again when he leaned over and kissed her. She purposefully turned her head to the side, ending it prematurely.

"Can you kiss me back?" he entreated.

She didn't want to do that, either, but she felt almost as if she had no choice when his mouth came down atop hers again. She grimaced as they kissed, hating the smell of cigarettes on his breath and the brush of his tongue against hers.

She felt like she was going to be sick.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, tearing her mouth away when she just couldn't stand it anymore.

"Doing what?" he asked almost innocently.

" _This_." How stupid for him to act like he didn't know. Roan knew _exactly_ what he was doing. She had a feeling he'd done it before. "Bellamy's a good guy," she said, wishing she could just get him to back off.

"He limits you," Roan told her. "He's too overprotective. He needs to let you . . . spread your wings." Reaching out, he slid her coat down off her shoulders, and fear flooded her. If he was brazen enough to remove that item of clothing from her body, what else was he going to try to take off?

"You promise you won't hurt him?" she squeaked out, needing to at least get that reassurance.

"I promise," he said. "I've kept my word so far, haven't I?"

He had . . . but not without a cost. And she knew it was about to cost her a little bit more. He bent his head down to suck on her neck again, in the same place where he'd left a mark the other night. But he didn't stop there this time. Instead, he pushed her backward, laying her down, and he got on top of her. She shook fearfully, not sure she had the strength to fend him off. He was a big guy, a strong guy, so much bigger and stronger than her. The door wasn't locked, though, so maybe she could just push it open . . .

"No, no," she whimpered when his hands became way too daring. He tried to reach under the waistline of her jeans, but she grabbed his wrists to stop him and kept her legs glued together.

"Relax," he said, hovering above her. "I won't hurt you, either."

She wanted to cry, though, because . . . he was. He _was_ hurting her, just by making her feel so uncomfortable and afraid. She wanted to be strong, wanted to be brave for Bellamy's sake, but there were limits to what she could handle here. She didn't want to sleep with Roan. She didn't want it to get that far.

 _God, I hate this,_ she thought, saying nothing as he snaked one hand up underneath her shirt, his rough palms sliding over her quivering stomach. They didn't stop there, though. They kept moving upward, to the point where he was cupping her breast through her bra. He seemed to delight in the feeling, and a devilish gleam entered his eyes when he slipped his fingers underneath the cup to squeeze and rub her bare flesh.

She felt horrible as she lay there beneath him, letting him feel her up. She felt used and violated and utterly disgusting. But it was just his hands. She could handle his hands. She could go home and get in the shower and try to wash the feel of them away. She could fall asleep in the arms of her boyfriend, remembering what it was like to _want_ to be touched.

A loud knock on the window interrupted them, and Roan immediately withdrew his hand, sitting up. He readjusted her shirt for her and motioned for her to sit up, too. "Open the door," he said.

When she did, she was shocked to see a policeman standing next to the car.

"Good evening, officer," Roan said, gently nudging Clarke out of the car and getting out after her. "Is something the matter?"

"Take it home.," the officer snapped.

"Will do," Roan said peaceably enough.

 _No,_ Clarke thought adamantly. _We won't._ She was going home to Finn. End of story.

The officer started to walk away, but he must have felt like something was off, or maybe she just wasn't good at concealing how frazzled she was, because he turned back around and asked, "Is something wrong, ma'am?"

So much. So much was wrong. And maybe if she told him, he could arrest Roan right then and there. But maybe he wouldn't. She hadn't exactly been pushing him away, even though she'd wanted to.

"No," she answered shakily. "Nothing's wrong."

The officer still looked suspicious, but he didn't push it as hard as he should have. He gave them a nod and continued on his way. And with him went Clarke's chance at putting a stop to this whole nightmare.

"See you soon," Roan seethed into her ear before he headed around to the other side of the car.

 _Oh god,_ she thought, dreading the thought. What if it didn't stop at a touch next time? What if he tried to get her naked or . . . started concentrating on other parts of her?

She drove home in a bit of a daze, not really sure if any of this had really happened tonight or if it'd been a nightmare. She knew she had to be more careful, had to do something to minimize the chances of being caught alone with him. From now on, she wasn't leaving that club without someone with her, preferably Bellamy, but Harper or one of the other girls would be better than nothing. She was going to get some pepper spray or some other self-defense mechanism. Hell, maybe she'd just _learn_ to defend herself.

But . . . she felt trapped. Because if she turned Roan down in any way, then what would happen to Bellamy?

Tears stung her eyes as she turned the corner onto her street. This was so awful. How the hell had she gotten herself swept up in all of this? She felt like she was in a whirlwind with no way out, and she didn't know what to do. She couldn't tell Finn, because he wouldn't know how to handle it. And even if he did, he'd wonder why she was doing all of this for a guy she hadn't even known a few months ago. And she couldn't tell Bellamy, because he'd go berserk and probably lash out at Roan.

The whole thing was just a mess. A horrifying mess.

When she got home, she felt . . . well, she wasn't sure how she felt, actually, but it didn't feel good. Finn surprised her right when she walked in the door by swooping her up into his arms.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, caught off guard as she dropped her purse and her keys. "Finn . . . what're you doing?"

"Kissing you," he said, planting one on her lips. "Is that allowed?"

She felt so guilty, so ashamed, that Roan had just been kissing her, too. "Of course," she said, barely getting the words out before his mouth descended onto hers again.

"I was thinking about you all day," he murmured against her lips.

"You were?"

"Yeah. Thinking about this." He hoisted her up into his arms eagerly, and out of habit, she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her into the bedroom.

Were they really gonna do this right now? _Right_ now?

It seemed that way as he lay her down on the bed and climbed on top of her. Being in this position made her flash back to being in that car with Roan, _him_ on top of her. She knew this was different and that she had nothing to be afraid of with Finn. But she still didn't feel like she was capable of relaxing and enjoying the moment with him.

Either he had a few drinks in him or was just feeling horny as hell, because his hands were everywhere. All over her sides, her denim-clad thighs, and eventually sliding up under her shirt the exact same way Roan's had. She squirmed beneath him, trying to pour all her energy into their lip-lock, but she couldn't match his enthusiasm tonight.

"Finn . . . can you just . . . slow down?" she choked out, hating that pleading sound in her own voice.

He stared down at her, looking a bit baffled. But to his credit, he said, "Sure," and removed his hands from beneath her shirt. "In fact . . ." He grinned slowly, mischievously. "I was thinking about what you said the other night, about how you wanted to do something . . . different."

 _I said that?_ She tried to remember. Oh, yeah. That. She'd been so disappointed that he hadn't been more receptive. She'd gone in the bathroom afterwards and . . .

"I didn't mean to just dismiss it," he said apologetically. "If that's what you want, I'll give it to you."

 _If that's what I want?_ Her mind whirled, trying to find a way out of this. All she wanted for the rest of the night was to be able to go to sleep and dream about . . . something. Anything other than the reality of her current situation with Roan.

His fingers were already wandering down to her pants, unfastening her jeans.

"No, Finn, I don't . . ." She pushed his hands away, feeling horrible for rejecting him. "I don't really wanna do that tonight."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

She totally was. And she wished she wasn't. "I'm sorry."

Finn sat up, scratching his forehead in confusion. "Sometimes it feels like I can't win with you, Clarke," he mumbled, sounding sort of . . . pissed. "I mean, talk about sending me mixed messages."

Propping herself up on her forearms, she assured him, "I _do_ still wanna do that with you, but . . ." She couldn't explain why tonight just wasn't the night for it, why she didn't really want to be touched right now. But it wouldn't be that way forever. "I'm just really tired tonight," she said. "I've been working a lot lately."

Finn swung his legs over the side of the bed, grunting and grumbling, "You go dance on a pole a couple nights a week. How tiring can that be?"

She opened her mouth in shock, wanting to protest, wanting to remind him that, yes, she actually _did_ work hard. It wasn't easy being fucking Number One at that fucking club. People expected a lot of her.

"I'm gonna go sleep on the couch," Finn decided, grabbing a pillow from the top of the bed on his way out.

Clarke lay back down once he'd left the room, utterly stunned. Had he really just said that to her? Had her own _boyfriend_ really just said that to her?

She'd already felt bad on the way home. Now she felt even worse.


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28_

Clarke was actually pretty grateful for rehearsal. Sure, this director had a major stick up his ass, and he treated everyone on set like dogs. But being there helped keep Clarke's mind off of . . . other things. Plus, it was kind of cool to see Bellamy work. She even got to be in a few scenes with him, but mostly, she had dialogue with Gina.

Shumway dismissed the rest of the cast for their lunch break while he worked with Bellamy and Gina on the slow-dance scene. Gina seemed to have two left feet—poor girl—and kept stepping on Bellamy's shoes. Even though he wasn't making a big deal out of it, it just _looked_ awkward. Clarke was half tempted to go up there and demonstrate what it should look like, because when she and Bellamy had rehearsed it the other night . . . well, it _felt_ like it'd looked good. But she wasn't about to overstep her bounds like that. Gina was the actress and Shumway was the director. They could figure it out.

She ended up sitting off to the side with a skinny blonde girl named Cassie, who basically _never_ stopped talking. She was constantly fangirling over Johnny Depp and Channing Tatum, and even though Clarke tried to tune her out, her ears perked up when Cassie started fangirling over Bellamy.

"Look at him," she said. "He's so hot."

Clarke _did_ look at him, and . . . yeah, there was no denying that. Bellamy's biceps were the perfect size beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt. He wasn't jacked up like a bodybuilder, but he was _definitely_ fit.

"Do you think they're hooking up?" Cassie asked nosily.

"Who?" Clarke asked. "Bellamy and . . . and Gina?"

Cassie nodded.

Clarke wasn't about to embarrass Gina by telling this girl that Bellamy hadn't reciprocated her feelings, so she just said, "No," and left it at that.

"Do you think he'd hook up with me?" Cassie asked hopefully.

Back when she'd first met him, she would have said yes, but now . . . Bellamy didn't seem like he was bringing random chicks back to his place quite so often. "I don't know," she said, doubting it.

Cassie pouted. "He says he has a girlfriend."

"What?" Clarke shrieked.

"Yeah."

What the hell? Bellamy didn't have a _girlfriend_. Bree didn't count anymore.

"That's what he says," Cassie said with a shrug.

Clarke looked over at him curiously, wondering if there was someone else now, maybe somebody new, somebody she hadn't met or seen him with yet. She spent so much time with him, though, that she felt like she would have known. Surely this chick had just heard him wrong or something.

Once Shumway finally gave his two leads a break, Clarke sauntered up to Bellamy, meeting him at the bottom of the stage, and asked, "Since when do _you_ have a girlfriend?"

He chuckled. "What?"

"That girl over there . . ." She jerked her thumb backward, motioning to Cassie. "She's pretty bummed about it."

"Oh, her." Bellamy rolled his eyes. "I just told her that so she'd stop flirting with me."

Tilting her head to the side, she said, "I thought you liked flirting."

"I do," he confirmed. "Just not with her."

 _But you like flirting with me,_ she thought. It wasn't even a question in her mind. Bellamy's default setting was pretty much charismatic and charming, but he knew what he was doing. All those little things he did with his hands, the way he looked in her eyes . . . he knew.

"I noticed you haven't really been hooking up with as many girls lately," she noted. "What's that about?"

"Well, I've been focused," he claimed. "On this." Looking around the theater, he cleared his throat, nodding. "Yeah, you know, work before pleasure. That's my motto."

"That's _not_ your motto," she said, laughing.

"No, it's not," he agreed, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"So why haven't you?" she pressed, wanting to know.

He shrugged. "Just haven't wanted to, I guess."

She frowned, more curious than anything else. Was his bathroom just his own personal jack-shack now or something? Because he'd gone from getting laid almost every single night to . . . this. Not that she was complaining. Falling asleep to a symphony of sex sounds had never exactly been enjoyable. But . . . it was just kind of weird.

After rehearsal, she had to turn down Bellamy's offer to hit the grocery store together, because she knew she had to do something about the Finn situation. She hated thinking of it that way, as a _situation_ , but at this point, that was what it was. He had indeed slept out on the couch last night, and they'd barely said two words to each other this morning. The last thing she wanted was to let the tension build up and fester. Clearly they were having issues communicating, and it was better to just address them now.

Even though she hated having to stop by the offices of the advertising agency—mostly because she dreaded the thought of crossing paths with Cage—that was where Finn was. So that was where she needed to go. A secretary out front told him where his office was, and it sort of dawned on her that . . . she'd never actually been here before. She'd never even _seen_ where Finn did most of his work. Sure, she'd been in the studio with him, but . . . that was different.

 _Maybe I should visit him more,_ she pondered. Lunch dates. They could have lunch dates every other day of the week.

"I don't know, the lighting on this one looks off to me," a female voice—one she recognized—was saying as Clarke gently pushed open the office door. Raven was in there with him, standing beside him while he sat at his desk, peering over his shoulder at a collection of photos spread out in front of them.

"I think it looks fine," he said. "But we can go with whatever you want."

"Damn right we can." She smirked at him, then glanced over and noticed they were no longer alone. "Oh, hey, Clarke," she said. "It's good to see you again."

"Yeah, you, too." She looked around his office, amazed at how small it was. Sure, he was just a photographer, and as the creative _director_ , Raven's office was probably much bigger. But still . . . it seemed like they'd renovated a janitor's closet and just shoved him in there.

Finn didn't say hi to her. In fact, he didn't look particularly glad to see her. Probably meant he was still pissed.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt while you were guys are working," Clarke said, wondering if she should have called or texted him first. But if she'd done that, he probably would have just told her he'd see her at home and they could talk then.

"Oh, it's fine," Raven assured her. "We were just finishing up."

 _Good,_ she thought, nodding, glad that Raven wasn't one to demand _all_ of Finn's time. "Can we talk?" she asked her boyfriend.

It took him a moment, but finally he responded with a terse, "Sure."

"I'll get these to Cage," Raven said, collecting all the photos. She smiled at Clarke on her way out and shut the door.

"What're you doing here?" Finn asked her, leaning back in his chair.

She took a deep breath and started in. "Well, at first I thought I'd come apologize for last night, but then I thought . . . no, I'm not the only one who should apologize here." She set her purse down, making her way around to the other side of the desk. She sat down on the edge of it and amended, "I mean, I _am_ sorry for sending you mixed signals. I didn't mean to do that." Lowering her head, staring down at her lap, she mumbled, "But what you said to me really hurt my feelings, Finn."

He let out a heavy sigh.

"I _do_ work hard; it _is_ tiring," she insisted. "Getting up there and doing what I do takes practice and training. And it takes guts. If you had any idea what it's like to . . ." She really didn't want to go into detail, make it seem worse than it was. Because the truth was, she actually really liked pole-dancing as a genre. But taking off her clothing would never _not_ induce anxiety, _ever_. "Even if I'm nervous, I have to act confident," she said. "And usually I do feel confident, but what you said to me last night . . . it didn't make me feel confident; it made me feel pathetic."

He winced.

It was tough being so brutally honest with him, but she refused to be like her mom and just bury the hurt she was feeling. "And I'm not used to you making me feel that way," she admitted. "And you shouldn't. You're my boyfriend. You should lift me up, not put me down."

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "You're right."

"And in case you've forgotten, who earned that money you're gonna spend on your new car, huh?" she reminded him. "I believe it was me."

"Fair enough."

"So don't insinuate that what I do is easy. I haven't had it easy here, and if you weren't so busy working, you might know that." That came out sounding a bit more accusatory than she'd intended. But . . . honesty. All in the name of honesty.

"I do know, Clarke," he said.

She shook her head, doubting that. "How would you? You never ask me about my day, and you're hardly around for any of it." Feeling tears sting her eyes, tears that were probably just as much the result of Roan as they were of him, she said, "I'm not trying to make you out to be some bad guy; it's just . . ." She let out a shuddering exhale and confessed, "I _feel_ bad. I feel bad, Finn, about the way things are between us right now."

"So do I," he said. "And I am _so_ sorry for what I said. It was wrong. I was just . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know, there's no excuse."

No, there really wasn't. There was a difference between snapping at somebody and saying something completely _mean._ Finn had been mean last night, but he _did_ seem genuinely sorry. So she could forgive him for it.

"Come here," he said, grabbing both her hands. "Come on, sit on Santa's lap."

Unable to suppress a laugh at the dumb joke, she straddled his legs, staring down at him lovingly, wishing this guy was the one who had greeted her at home last night. Every night.

"What do you want for Christmas?" he asked her.

"For Christmas?" She hadn't even thought about it, really, especially since they were trying to be frugal.

"Yeah. Whatever you want, I'll get it for you," 'he promised.

That was the thing, though. She didn't _want_ anything he could just go out and buy. What she wanted . . . it wasn't tangible, but it was so important. "I just want us to be _us_ again," she said, playing with the buttons on his shirt.

Massaging his hands up and down her sides, hands that were so much gentler than Roan's, he said, "Then that's what you'll get." Like it was easy. It wasn't. She was sure about that. Getting back to the way they used to be would take a little time. But he seemed willing to work at it, and she _knew_ she was willing to work at it, so . . . it was good.

It was all good.

...

Bellamy had agreed to hang out with Miller that night, because Miller had a new apartment with his boyfriend, Jackson, and wanted to show it off. But Murphy and Emori also invited him over, so he ended up inviting them along to Miller's place, and he brought Niylah for good measure. He would have asked Clarke to come with him, too, but she and Finn were having a date night or something. He'd seen some pictures of them out at a restaurant on Instagram, and hadn't really paid them much attention. If it was the restaurant he thought it was, it was shit anyway.

In addition to being a med student, it seemed that Jackson was quite a good cook. He whipped up enough food for all of them on short notice, and after eating, they descended into a hyper-competitive game of charades. Bellamy didn't want to participate, and Niylah seemed content to veg on the couch with him. But Miller and Jackson versus Murphy and Emori was quite the dual to watch. Both of the couples knew each other pretty well, and both wanted to win.

"Miller's boyfriend seems nice," Niylah remarked as Jackson flopped around on the floor like a dying fish. For some reason, Miller kept guessing "Sperm whale!"

"Yeah, he does," Bellamy agreed. For some reason, as lame as it sounded, he kind of wished he was playing charades with them right now, but he and Niylah weren't in sync enough to make a good team. If Clarke had been there, they probably would've done alright. They knew each other pretty well. Very well, actually.

"I wanna fuck Clarke," he blurted suddenly, not loud enough for anyone but Niylah to hear.

Groaning longingly, she said, "God, so do I."

"No, it's . . ." He didn't want it to seem like he was just horny, though, so he added, "It's more than that."

"Well." Niylah sat up straighter, eyebrows wriggling. "About time you said it out loud."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Very." She laughed, obviously amused. "But why are you telling me this?"

He wasn't quite sure, to be honest, because even though they'd worked together for a while, she wasn't his closest confidante in the room. "Because I need a female's perspective," he decided. "Can't tell Harper, though. She's Clarke's best friend."

" _You're_ her best friend," Niylah corrected. "What do you wanna know?"

He wanted to know if she'd talked to Clarke at all, if she knew anything, if Clarke had ever insinuated that she thought of him as more than a friend. But he didn't want to sound desperate, so instead he asked, "Should I drop some hints?"

"Drop some anvils," Niylah suggested.

"Why?" That sounded desperate. "You don't think she feels the same?"

"Not necessarily. I just think she'll try her hardest to stay with that loser boyfriend of hers."

"You think he's a loser?" That one word in connection with Finn was music to Bellamy's ears. "See, I think so, too."

"Please, he's got nothing on you," Niylah scoffed. "But if you don't wanna tell her how you feel, you could always do friends with benefits."

"No, Clarke would never go for that." Besides, after that fiasco relationship he'd had with Bree, he wasn't doing that again. "I don't know," he said, watching Jackson jump up and celebrate when Miller finally correctly guessed _dead fish._ "I'll figure something out."

"Keep me posted," Niylah said. "I'm totally shipping this."

He rolled his eyes. Shipping? Whatever. He just wanted to kiss the girl. And then do a little more than kissing.

Bellamy thought about Clarke all the way home, about what kind of anvil he might be able to drop. Maybe Christmas would afford him some kind of opportunity. She'd invited him over, after all, so if he went, that'd give him an excuse to get her a gift. He'd seen something in a store window the other day that he thought might be good, something that wouldn't break the bank but would still be meaningful.

He probably would have just kept thinking about her had he not gotten home to find the door to his apartment . . . slightly ajar. _What the hell?_ he wondered, slowly approaching it. That lock looked like it'd been broken open.

Anxiously, he pushed open the door and flipped on the light. What he saw . . . it didn't even look like his apartment. At least not the way he'd left it. His mattress had been flipped off his bed, and all his kitchen drawers had been taken out. They were strewn across the floor now, their contents everywhere. The chairs at his small kitchen table had been busted at the legs, and everything around his couch was trashed. The pillows were sliced open, his video games broken and laying in shards on the floor, and the wires connected to his TV had been cut. The screen was cracked, and there was a hole in his wall right next to it, like somebody had swung at it with a baseball bat.

It was completely ransacked.

 _Holy shit,_ he thought, running over to his nightstand drawer. It was halfway open, but when he pulled it all the way out, he saw that the emergency cash he always kept stashed there was gone. It didn't feel like somebody had just come in here and robbed him, though, because they'd left the TV and his video game console. Besides, why would anyone bother to trash the place if they'd just come for some cash?

He already knew the answer, knew it in his gut. Whoever had been here _hadn't_ come for the cash. They were trying to scare him, just like those guys had tried to scare him by beating him up the other night. Hell, it'd probably been the same two guys. Which meant they'd been sent by the same person.

...

Clarke was completely naked again. Bellamy wasn't surprised by it, but still . . . two performances in a row baring all. That meant stripping down to nothing was what people would expect from her now. Once a girl went for it, there was no going back.

He'd taken a break from the disaster area that was his apartment to come watch her dance tonight. She was headlining again—always would be now—so she danced for a while, and _everyone_ was there for it. When she finished, there were many groans of disappointment from men who just wanted to watch her some more. As they threw money up towards the stage, they clapped and cheered for her.

Bellamy hung back in the shadows, not clapping, not taking his eyes off her, either. Not until he sensed someone coming towards him. _Roan._

"You're not gonna clap for my girl?" the other man asked almost accusingly.

Oh, this guy made his blood boil, but he had to keep his cool. "She's not your girl," he said.

But of course Roan was over-confident about his chances. "She will be."

At his sides, Bellamy's fists tightened. If this guy did anything to her . . .

"Your eye looks better," Roan said as Clarke left the stage.

Yeah, it felt better, too, but it didn't make him feelany better to hear the guy who had ordered his beating mention it.

"It's a shame you might just get beat up again."

Determined not to be intimidated, Bellamy turned and challenged, "Is that a threat?" Because if it was, then he could play hardball. Maybe he didn't have the money Roan had, didn't have his own personal thugs to carry out his dirty work, but he wasn't a chump, either.

"Of course not," Roan said, smirking. "I heard you had some trouble with your apartment."

"Oh, I'm sure you did."

"Robbed, huh? That's rough."

 _Could've been rougher,_ Bellamy thought. Back in LA, his place had been vandalized once. He'd been in a gas station during an _armed_ robbery. This was nothing he couldn't handle. He was fine.

"And naturally, people might say you should go to the police," Roan went on, "but if you do . . . it could just get worse."

Part of him _had_ been debating calling the cops, but he knew how corrupt they could be. It was no secret that Roan had paid some of them off over the years. It was the only way he could keep himself out of jail. "I can handle it," he stated confidently, not backing down.

Roan narrowed his eyes menacingly and seethed, "I didn't say it'd get worse for you."

His chest tightened with alarm as _that_ sunk in. If Roan wasn't threatening him, then it was . . .

Clarke. He was threatening _Clarke._

If he went to the cops, if he reported anything that had happened . . . this guy was going to do _something_ to her. And he couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.

...

On Christmas Eve, Clarke let Finn unwrap his gift. It looked nicer than it actually was, because she'd wrapped up a box in shiny gold paper and put a huge bow and curly ribbons on top of it. "Okay, in what might be the lamest Christmas gift ever," she said as he opened up the box and took out the tissue paper, "I got you . . . my own merchandise!"

"Oh, no way." He took out one of the coffee cups with her picture on it, eyes widening in awe. "This stuff is cool."

"It's kinda ridiculous," she acknowledged. "But I know we said we were gonna be really cheap with the gifts this year." Obviously as the girl whose picture was on these items, she got a huge discount.

"I like it," he said, laughing when he saw the coasters. "Thanks, babe."

"You're welcome." She thought it might be kind of a cool gift since they were his photos, too. The next set of items up for sale would likely have Roger's photos on them.

"I'm gonna give you yours tomorrow, alright?" he said, setting the box aside.

"Why? Did Amazon not deliver it yet?"

"No, I just wanna have something nice to give you on Christmas Day."

"Mmm." She crawled up onto his lap, hooking her arms around his neck. The holiday had her feeling . . . better. Better than she had a couple nights ago. Christmas had lifted up her spirits, not completely, but enough for her to put a smile on her face. "Just spending the whole day with me tomorrow . . . that'll be enough."

He tucked her hair behind her ear and kissed her. And not the kind of kiss where he was expecting more, either. It was . . . refreshing.

That night, when she and Finn were both already asleep, her phone rang. It woke her up but not him, so she got out of bed and headed out into the living room to take the call.

"Hi, Mom," she said, flopping down on the couch.

"Hi, honey," her mother said. "I'm sorry it's so late."

She yawned, wondering if her mom remembered she was an hour _ahead_ of her time. Late was kind of an understatement.

"Marcus and I went to his work party, and we lost track of time," her mother rambled. She went on to say something about a chili cook-off, which just sounded _so_ Kansas and kind of even made Clarke nostalgic. But Kane had cooked the chili for the cook-off, which automatically made her less interested.

Her mother finally quit babbling and got the point when she said, "But I wanted to call you, wish you a merry Christmas. I'm not sure if we'll get a chance to talk tomorrow."

Well, it was better than a text. Clarke had to admit, she'd been a little worried her mother and father might forget about her altogether this year. "Yeah, merry Christmas," she said, wondering if her mom had put the tree up. They had a fake one, but it was a _beautiful_ one, nicer than any tree she'd ever seen in the store. They put it in the same spot in the living room every year and always decorated it the same. Certain ornaments had certain spots, and they all had their specific roles. Her mother was the garland expert, she was the one who draped the beads, and her dad . . . well, her dad had always put the start on the top.

Something told her that tree wasn't up this year.

"It feels so strange not being with you for either Christmas or Thanksgiving this year," her mom said, sounding a bit sad. "Do you and Finn have plans?"

They had a few recipes, all of which would probably turn out disastrous, but they were worth a shot. "Nothing major," she answered.

"Hmm, well, Marcus is taking me to see his family."

Clarke rolled her eyes, hating the thought of him being _Marcus_. No, he was Kane. Unbearable, close-minded principal Kane.

"I'm a little nervous," her mom admitted. "I've never met most of them before."

In that moment, even though Clarke didn't particularly _like_ her future stepdad, she did feel for her mom. Meeting somebody's parents, no matter how old you were, wasn't easy. "You'll be fine," she assured her. Her mom was a brilliant woman, a beautiful woman, a doctor . . . who wouldn't be impressed with her?

"Are you okay, honey?" her mother asked. "You seem sorta quiet."

Did she? Maybe she just didn't really have a whole lot to say. Or maybe . . . maybe she just couldn't tell her mom everything anymore. There was so much going on in her life, not all of it pleasant, but she couldn't talk about it without concerning the woman who had raised her. "Yeah, it's just . . ." She sniffled, set on keeping the emotions inside. "It's been a long couple of weeks." She really hoped the worst was over, though. Hopefully she and Finn were getting back on track now, and hopefully this thing with Roan . . .

Hopefully she'd given him enough so that there wouldn't even be a thing with Roan anymore.

...

Having cleaned up his entire apartment, Bellamy now faced the issue of the hole in his wall. He went to the hardware store and got the necessary supplies to fix it, but he didn't know what he was doing, so he just looked online and tried to do what he saw there.

His TV was a goner, though. So it wasn't even like he could spend Christmas day watching holiday movies he'd seen a dozen times before. And they'd busted out the front of his microwave, too, so his options for cooking were limited to the oven and stove. And he wasn't motivated for that.

He started feeling pretty crappy as he applied the second coat of compound to his drywall. This was where he was and this was what he was doing on Christmas? It was pathetic.

When he took a break from the wall and picked up his phone to see if Octavia had texted him or anything, he saw that she'd sent him a picture of herself and Ilian, captioned _Merry X-mas big bro!_ They both had Santa hats on and looked ridiculous. But happy.

He wished he could be with her today, but . . . hopefully she'd get his gift in the mail. He and Clarke had gone all out for that speaker.

Feeling kind of down in the dumps and sorry for himself, he thought about Clarke's invitation to go over to her place today. He'd never actually accepted it, but he'd never declined it, either. On the one hand, he wasn't sure he wanted to be around Finn all day, but on the other hand . . . he definitely wanted to be around Clarke.

After contemplating it for a good fifteen minutes, he finally made up his mind, grabbed his gifts, and headed over to their place. He knocked on the door, hoping it wouldn't catch them off guard to see him standing there. Maybe she'd assumed that he wouldn't be coming by, and maybe they didn't have enough food. Or maybe they'd changed their plans or . . . something. He didn't want to be some unwanted third wheel.

"Hey," she said when she opened the door. "You decided to come."

"Yeah. I hope that's alright."

"Of course." She smiled at him.

"Hey, Bellamy," Finn said, sauntering up behind his girlfriend. "Glad you could make it."

"Yeah, thanks for having me." He stepped inside when they opened the door wider, and awkwardly, he handed them the gift in his hand. "I, uh . . . I brought a plant," he said, handing the potted fern to Clarke. "For you guys. It's a lame gift."

"No, it's nice," Clarke said. "Thank you."

He was still pretty sure it was lame, but what the hell was he supposed to get for the both of them? He didn't even like Finn, let alone want to spend money on a gift for him alone. So . . . a plant it was.

"We were just getting ready to start making some stuff," Finn said as he headed back into the kitchen. "Can you cook?"

He shrugged. "I get by." Kicking off his shoes, he looked into the living room, sort of hoping to see someone else there. "Where's Harper?" he asked.

"Uh, she is in Arkadia, actually," Clarke replied as she set the fern in the window, likely oblivious to the fact that it would grow better in shade. "Monty got her a plane ticket, so she's spending some time with him and his family for a few days."

 _So it's just me then,_ Bellamy registered. _Great._ That really wasn't gonna help the third wheel feeling.

"That happened fast," Finn remarked as he slid a ham into the oven.

"Yeah, it's this whole whirlwind romance thing," Clarke said. "But they really like each other, so . . ." She shrugged.

 _So Harper's there,_ he thought, _and I'm here. With Clarke. And Finn._ He really wasn't sure how he was gonna make it through the day without feeling awkward as fuck, but he figured a good start might be to help out in the kitchen. "What can I do?" he asked, willing to bet that Clarke would be even less help than he was. From what he knew, she wasn't much of a cook. But she made up for it by being so good at so many other things.

Once they'd prepared the meal and sat down to eat it, Finn turned the channel to TBS so they could tune into _A Christmas Story._ Bellamy actually liked the movie, but he'd seen it so many times he had the dialogue memorized. As did every other person on the planet.

"Oh, this is my favorite part," Finn said, "when the kid gets his tongue stuck to the pole."

"Classic scene," Clarke agreed. She was sitting with him on the couch, and Bellamy had been relegated to the computer chair.

"I did that once, on a dare just like this kid," Finn admitted.

"You would," Bellamy mumbled. What a tool.

"It sucked."

Well, yeah, sticking your tongue to a frozen pole against all advice and common sense and then having it get suck _would_ suck. Bellamy just rolled his eyes and kept eating.

After the movie ended, Clarke took some plain sugar cookies out of the refrigerator, and they all sat around the counter, decorating them. They had frosting and sprinkles and red hots and all that good stuff. It seemed . . . strangely wholesome to Bellamy to be decorating cookies, because it was something he hadn't done . . . ever. It seemed like such a family thing, and his family had never done that.

"I don't have the patience for this," Finn declared as she smeared some blue frosting around a snowflake cookie. "Just slap on some frosting and call it good." He put that cookie in the _done_ tray and snuck a few sprinkles, dropping them into his mouth.

"I have to take my time," Clarke said, peering closely at her Santa cookie as she squeezed curls of white frosting onto the spot where his beard would be.

Bellamy was somewhere in between the two of them. Like Finn, he was mostly interested in just eating the cookies, but like Clarke, he kind of wanted his to look good.

"Oh, I gotta take this," Finn said, pulling his phone out of his pocket as it rang. "It's my mom."

"Go ahead," Clarke said.

Holding the phone up to his ear, he said, "Hey, Mom, merry Christmas," as he headed back into the bedroom. Bellamy heard him shut the door, and he was happy to have him gone. When it was just him and Clarke, it was better.

"Aren't you supposed to decorate cookies _before_ Christmas day?" he teased, not sure why they were doing this in the afternoon.

"Better late than never," she said, setting the white frosting down." She picked up the red tube then and got to work on Santa's suit. "My mom and I used to do this every year," she said. "Tradition."

"Explains why yours are so good then." His Christmas tree cookie wasn't turning out exactly as he'd envisioned. The sprinkles were supposed to be the ornaments, but they just looked random.

"I'm meticulous," she acknowledged, using a knife to spread the red frosting around.

He sat back, wondering what else he could do to this tree before he devoured it. Maybe a dollop of yellow frosting up at the top to represent a star?

"So Finn seems . . . closer to his family than you are," he remarked, just watching her work for a minute.

"Kinda," she said. "They weren't exactly the perfect parents, either. His father drinks too much, his mother puts up with it. But I think they've gotten better."

He didn't get it then, why Finn wouldn't treat Clarke like the absolute queen of the world. If he'd grown up with a father who was less than ideal, then why wouldn't he do everything in his power to be better than him, to have a better relationship?

"Did you talk to your mom today?" she asked him, setting the knife down once she had all the red frosting spread.

"No, not yet. I'll call her tonight."

"What about Octavia?"

"She's with Ilian and his family again. Might as well be married in high school." He shook his head, but truth was . . . there were worse guys his sister could be with and worse places she could be. He picked up the yellow tube of frosting and squirted it onto the top of his tree, but too much came out, and his star ended up looking like some random yellow blob. "See, I tried being artistic, but mine looks like crap," he complained.

"It looks fine," she said. "Speaking of artistic, though . . . I have a present for you."

"Really?" That was enough to make him forget about this pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree.

"Yeah. It's kind of stupid." She wiped her hands off on a paper towel and slid down off her stool, making her way over to her desk. He stood up, too, following her, surprised that she'd gotten him something. He'd pretty much figured the invitation to spend the day here _was_ the gift, and that would have been more than enough.

"Merry Christmas," she said, spinning around with several papers in her hand.

Confused, he took them from her, taking a look at what was on them. "Is that me?" he asked. She'd given him four drawings, each of some familiar movie characters with his face on them.

"Yeah. I drew you as the _Fight Club_ guy, the Godfather," she said.

He chuckled as he got a load of himself in Brad Pitt's burnt-orange leather jacket and Aviator-style sunglasses. And then him in Marlon Brando's tuxedo with a cat on his lap. He didn't even know Clarke had _seen_ that movie. Or maybe she hadn't and she'd just Googled it. Regardless, it was . . . interesting.

"And then I didn't know what other movies you like, so I just drew you as Rambo and Rocky," she said.

He laughed again as he looked at the drawings of him playing two of Sylvester Stallone's most iconic characters, both of which made him look way more bulked up than he actually was. "These are cool," he said, wondering how much time she'd spent on them. They were really good, pretty detailed. And they totally fed his fantasy about being an A list movie star someday.

"I just think you're a really good actor," she said, "and . . . I don't know, those just happened."

"Well, you're a really good artist," he said, thinking he might stick these up on his refrigerator. Or tape them to the wall by his bed. They'd motivate him whenever he went out to audition for a part.

"I dabble," she said modestly.

"No, you're _really_ good," he emphasized. "Thanks, Clarke."

"You're welcome," she said, smiling.

He set the drawings down, feeling like it was the perfect time to give her something in return. "I actually got you something, too," he said. "Besides the plant."

"You didn't have to get me anything," she said. "The plant was enough."

It really wasn't—it was a fucking _plant_ , for Christ's sake—and that was why he'd swung by the jewelry store last night with what little money he had left in his wallet. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out a small box, handing it over to her.

"Bellamy . . ." she said, looking at him with one of those _You shouldn't have_ expressions on her face.

"Don't worry, it's not expensive," he assured her. "Open it." He couldn't wait to see that look in her eyes when she saw it, because when _he'd_ seen it, he'd thought of her right away.

Almost hesitantly, she opened the box, and her eyes lit up just the way he'd hoped they would when she saw what was inside. "Bellamy . . ." she said again, gazing at the silver necklace. "I love it."

"I just saw it, and . . . I thought of you," he admitted. It had a music symbol on it, a treble clef or something. And even though it wasn't _real_ silver, it looked close enough to real silver.

"This is too nice," she said, lifting the necklace out of the box. She held it in her hands, a big smile on her face, and then unhooked it and put it around her neck. It took her a minute to hook it back together, but when she did . . . it looked perfect resting against the smooth skin of her chest, right above the V-neck of her shirt. "How's it look?" she asked.

 _Beautiful,_ he thought. Clarke Griffin . . . was beautiful. With or without that necklace on. In fact, she was probably the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. "Looks good," he said, saving the hyperbole since her boyfriend was just in the next room.

She looked so happy as she glanced down at the necklace and then up again at him. Clearly she hadn't expected it.

Unfortunately, Finn re-emerged from the bedroom sooner than Bellamy would have liked, phone back in his pocket, and he totally ruined the moment. "Okay, my aunt and uncle's family was there, so they couldn't talk long," he said. "They're gonna call back later." He ambled up next to Clarke and asked, "You guys get the cookies done?"

Clarke didn't say anything.

"No, we just took a break," Bellamy answered for her.

"Break sounds good," Finn said. "And hey, look what I found in there." He whipped a silver necklace of his own out of his pocket, dangling it in front of her. "A gift for my Princess."

"Oh my god, Finn," she gasped, eyes widening in amazement. "Is that . . . is that a real diamond?"

"Yeah."

 _Of course,_ Bellamy thought, disgruntled. Of course Finn was going to one-up him.

"Cost a pretty penny, but you're worth it," Finn made sure to tell her. "What do you think?"

Taking it from him, she said, "It's beautiful."

"I knew you'd like it. Here, put it on."

"Oh." Almost as if she were a bit caught off guard by all of this, she frowned slightly as she moved her hair aside, curling it over one shoulder as he moved behind her and took the necklace from her hands.

"Take this one off," he said, unhooking Bellamy's gift. It fell into her hands, and she clasped it tightly. "There we go." Finn draped _his_ necklace around her neck, securing it into place, and Bellamy could barely even watch.

When Clarke turned around, Finn smiled his approval and said, "That looks nice. Do you love it?"

"Of course," she said.

As if he'd forgotten Bellamy was even in the room, Finn said, "Come here," and enveloped her in his arms. He hugged her, and she hugged him back, but unlike him, she _hadn't_ forgotten about Bellamy. She locked eyes with him over Finn's shoulder, looking . . . a little bit sad? Maybe? He couldn't be sure. Maybe it was just his imagination. She still had his necklace in her hand, but she had a fancier, more expensive one around her neck now. And since her boyfriend had been the one to give it to her, it wasn't like she could take it off.


	29. Chapter 29

_Chapter 29_

The days following Christmas were mostly relaxing ones. Finn didn't have to work much, and Clarke didn't have to work at all, so they were able to spend some time together. They went and saw a movie, went out to eat, and, most importantly, went and purchased that Chevy Impala he wanted. When they weren't out and about, they took it easy together— _lots_ of napping—and reached out to their friends back home. Facetiming Monty was probably the highlight since Harper was with him. Having a girlfriend now made Monty seem more like a man.

"So how are you liking Kansas?" Clarke asked.

"I love it," Harper said. "It's so cozy."

Well . . . cozy was one for it. Suffocating was another.

Finn leaned in, getting himself back in the video frame, and asked, "And is Monty's family loving you?"

"Of course," she replied confidently.

"Yeah, they're shocked my first girlfriend's such a pretty one," Monty added with a smirk.

"Aww . . ." She tilted her head up, and they kissed.

 _They're totally gonna make this long-distance thing work,_ Clarke thought. She'd never seen two people fall so hard and so fast for each other.

"So what did you get for Clarke, Finn?" Harper asked.

"A diamond necklace," he answered, nudging Clarke. "Show 'em."

Clarke lifted the necklace up for them to see.

"Ooh, that's really nice!" Harper exclaimed. Monty's dog jumped up on her lap and started to kiss her, and she giggled.

"Just biding your time until the ring, huh?" Monty teased.

"Something like that," Finn mumbled.

 _The ring?_ Clarke thought. _The ring?_ Surely there wasn't a ring yet, but the implication there was that . . . there would be. Someday. Maybe next Christmas. Maybe even sooner than that. She wasn't sure she was ready for a ring yet. The diamond necklace in and of itself was overwhelming. In a good way, of course, but still . . .

When Finn had to start up work again and his abbreviated time off came to an end, Clarke naturally found herself spending more time with Bellamy again. She went over to his place one night to play some video games, because even though she didn't _fully_ understand the appeal of them, she did have this competitive streak that needed to be fed. Kicking Bellamy's ass at virtual football always seemed to do the trick.

"Where did all your games go?" she asked as she sat on the floor, sorting through a small stack of options. Some racecar thing, _Grand Theft Auto,_ and a couple other sports ones she didn't really care about.

"I sold most of 'em," he said as he sat down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I needed money."

 _For what?_ she wondered. Hopefully not her Christmas present. "Is that a new TV?" she questioned, looking up at the screen mounted on the wall.

"Yeah." He scooped up a few pieces of popcorn and popped them into his mouth. "The old one quit working."

"Oh, so _that's_ what you needed money for." It all made sense then. Sort of. Because right next to it was a white splotch on his cream-colored wall, and that had her scratching her head, too. "What happened to your wall?"

"Nothing," he mumbled. "It's always looked like that."

It _had_? She didn't think so, but . . . he was the one who lived there. So he knew more about his walls than she did.

...

Rehearsals for the play started to get _really_ hectic right before New Year's. Because right _after_ New Year's, they were performing. For three nights in a row, _Innocence_ would be on stage. A small stage, of course, in a small theater, brought to life by a small cast and crew. But they were all excited. Shumway, of course, was stressed. He wanted this play to be his vision, and he tended to snap at anyone who messed his vision up.

"Good rehearsal, guys," Bellamy told the cast as Shumway stormed off one evening.

"Thanks, Bellamy," they mumbled.

"Figured I should say it since our director won't."

Clarke grunted. "God, he's such an ass."

"Mmm-hmm," Bellamy said, nodding in agreement.

Despite the director's assholery, though, Clarke couldn't deny that she'd sort of had fun taking part in this play. Sure, she was playing the bitchy girl, and her lines were minimal, and Shumway yelled at her on a near daily basis for stepping into someone else's light, but other than that . . . acting was kind of fun. Not something she wanted to make a career out of the way Bellamy did, but it was cool to be up on stage without having to take her clothes off.

"Hey, can you show us the last scene?" one of the other actresses asked Bellamy and Gina as they all began packing up their things.

"Yeah, I wanna see that!" Cassie exclaimed.

"Oh, yeah, the big kiss. Show us," another one of them urged.

Bellamy and Gina exchanged a look as everyone began to beg and plead for them to do it, and he said, "I don't know," reluctantly.

"Come on, _please_?" Cassie squealed.

 _No,_ Clarke thought, _please don't._ She didn't need to see Bellamy kiss Gina. She didn't need to see that at all.

"Show us, show us, show us, show us!" everyone began to chant. Fucking peer pressure up in there.

Gina just shrugged, so Bellamy relented, "Alright," and headed back up to the stage with her.

"Yay!" Cassie exclaimed. She took a seat in the front row, and Clarke plopped down next to her. Everyone else took a seat, too, predicting, "This is gonna be epic," and "I bet it's so hot." Clarke wasn't sure where they were getting that. Sure, Bellamy was a sexy guy, and Gina was pretty, too. But it wasn't like their chemistry was out of this world or anything. They didn't have a natural spark. Whatever relationship they conveyed up on stage was the result of acting. That was all.

"It's kind of hit and miss," Gina said, taking her position, "so hopefully we get it." She pretended to walk away from Bellamy, head down, eyes sad.

Bellamy cleared his throat and delivered the one simple line that led up to the moment. "Alyssa, wait . . ."

Slowly, Gina lifted her head up and turned back around. Her eyes met his, and she inhaled sharply before running to him, leaping into his arms. He caught her, stumbling backward a bit but maintaining his balance, and with only a moment's hesitance, they kissed. But . . . there _was_ hesitance. Clarke noticed it.

No one else seemed to as they yelled, "Woo!" and clapped their hands.

"And then I put her down," Bellamy said, setting Gina down on her own two feet, "we stare into each other's eyes, and that's it. Curtains close."

"That was so good!" one of the glorified extras exclaimed. "That was _so_ good."

Clarke made a face. What scene was he watching? It was the kind of thing Shumway would have made them do again, because he wouldn't have been satisfied with it. She wasn't entirely sure what that man's vision was, but she had a feeling that kiss wasn't a part of it.

"God, she's so lucky," Cassie said jealously. But to her credit, she clapped and cheered along with the rest of them. Clarke didn't even bother. Maybe it made her seem bitchy, but in that moment . . . she just couldn't.

The next day was less about rehearsing the play itself and more about finalizing all the wardrobe choices. Shumway brought in a couple of young designers, one girl and one guy, who both attended the Fashion Institute of Technology there in New York. The girl, Miriam, was really nice, but the guy, Alexander, was a bit of a diva.

The guys were up first, with outfits that were relatively easy to decide. Clarke got to hang around and watch Bellamy strip down to his skivvies to try on suits, a tuxedo, and some casual looks. He looked good in everything, and Miriam and Alexander both seemed to appreciate how impeccably the clothes fit his frame.

Of course the girls took longer to fit. There were just more styling aspects to consider. Alexander worked primarily with Gina, while Miriam fitted the rest of the girls. When it was Clarke's turn, she was most concerned with finding a cocktail dress for her for her introductory scene at the bar. She ended up having Clarke try on a form-fitting red dress first, one that went down to mid-thigh and had a plunging neckline in the front.

"Oh, yes, this looks magnificent on you, Clarke," she raved. "I think this is the one. It fits you like a glove. You have such a great figure."

"Thanks." Clarke spun to the side, checking out her reflection in the full-length mirror. She'd definitely looked worse. This dress, though not her normal color, definitely hugged her curves and emphasized . . . everything. It really did seem like the type of look her character would have.

"Sit tight, I'm gonna go find the right shoes to go with it," Miriam said, scampering off to her trunk of accessories.

Clarke smoothed her hands over her sides, wondering if Bellamy was watching her. But when she caught sight of him in the mirror, she found him sitting with the hairstylist, eyes closed as she ran some gel through his messy mop-head of hair.

Beside her, Gina was trying on a dress, too, a longer ballroom style one, and her designer wasn't offering up the same type of praise Miriam had. "No, no, no, this is just wrong," he fretted. "You're not filling it out right. I'm gonna go try to find another one." Huffing, he stomped off like the little designer diva he was, and Clarke felt her heart go out to Bellamy's costar. Gina didn't have the typical actress look, but it wasn't like she was out of shape or anything.

"I think it looks nice, Gina," she told her, hoping to lift her spirits.

But Gina didn't even crack a smile. In fact . . . she actually rolled her eyes.

At first, Clarke was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. With opening night approaching, she was probably just stressed, and this wardrobe fitting was probably just stressing her out even more. But Clarke didn't feel like she'd done anything to deserve that kind of response.

"Hey, Gina?" she said quietly. "I'm sorry, but . . . what did I ever do to you?"

Gina's head whipped towards her.

"I'm sorry," she said again, not trying to be confrontational, "I just . . . I get the feeling you _really_ don't like me, and I don't know why. I've always tried to be nice and friendly." With the exception of her withholding her applause today, she didn't think she'd ever done anything to incite this woman's animosity.

"It's not that I don't like you, Clarke," Gina mumbled.

Really? Could've fooled her. "Then what is it?" she pressed.

Gina huffed, flapping her arms against her sides. "What do you want me to say?" She walked over to Clarke, speaking in low but passionate tones as she growled, "Do you want me to admit how much I envy you? Fine. I do. I _envy_ you, Clarke."

She frowned. _Envy?_ Gina _did_ remember she worked at a strip club, right?

"I envy the way you can try on your first dress and automatically look magnificent in it, because they can't even find one for me," Gina ranted, tears springing into her eyes. "I envy how you can read _one_ line and score a part in this play, while I've been clawing my way into this god-awful industry for years."

Clarke lowered her head, feeling . . . truly sympathetic. And a little bit guilty.

But the real kicker came when Gina added, "And I envy the way Bellamy looks at you, because even though I like the guy . . ."

 _Bellamy,_ Clarke thought, her heart speeding up. _Bellamy?_

Gina sniffled. "That's just not the way he looks at me." She blinked back her tears and wiped one off her cheek when it spilled out. "Does that answer your question?"

Unfortunately . . . it did. Clarke nodded solemnly, wishing she hadn't said anything. She felt like she'd just opened up an emotional dam for Gina, and she hadn't meant to. All she'd wanted to do was clear the air.

Gina lifted her long dress off the floor and shuffled back over to her own mirror as Alexander reapproached with several new dress options in hand. "Here," he said, sounding frustrated, "let's see if we can _finally_ find one that works."

Clarke looked down at her own dress again, swallowing the lump in her throat. It took everything in her power not to cast another glance at Bellamy, just to see if he was looking at her in any special way.

...

Clarke put the finishing touches on her makeup and smacked her lips together as she surveyed her reflection. Yep, she felt like she looked good. Not too done up, but not too casual, either. She was wearing a shiny gold cocktail dress, one that didn't expose too much and would be easy to dance in. Because that was what tonight was going to be about: dancing. Not up on a pole, though.

"Are you _sure_ you don't wanna come to this party tonight?" Finn asked.

Leaving the bathroom, she cringed. "Ooh, New Year's Eve spent at one of your agency's parties? Hard pass."

He sighed. "I know it's not really your scene, but . . . I hate not ringing in the new year with you."

She would have much rather he just ditched the party and come with her to the club, but she didn't see that happening. So she'd made other plans instead. "It's okay," she said, understanding why he felt like it was a good idea for him to be there. "Harper and I are gonna have an awesome girls night."

"Well, let's at least do an early New Year's kiss then," he suggested. Moving in close to her, he encircled his arms around her waist and started counting down: "Ten, nine, eight . . ."

"I feel like this is what senior citizens do to ring in the new year," she mumbled.

"Seven, six, five . . ." He gave her a nudge to take over.

"Fine. Four, three, two . . ." she played along.

"One." He leaned in and kissed her, a sweet, surprisingly soft kiss. It probably would have been a deeper one had they _actually_ been counting down to midnight. But this was nice, too.

Pulling away, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered, "Happy New Year, Clarke."

She smiled, hoping it would be a happy new year indeed. Hopefully easier than the last one.

Harper drove to the club, which Clarke was thankful for, because she really didn't want to be the one behind the wheel on New Year's. Traffic was crazy, and drivers were crazier, but Harper navigated the streets like a pro.

When they got to Grounders, the line for the dance club side of the bar was hanging out the door. "Ugh, what a wait," Clarke groaned. They probably should have shown up earlier.

"I can get us in. I used to date the doorman," Harper said. "Let me go lay on the charm." With a confident smirk, she trotted up to the guy letting people in and got into flirt mode.

Clarke slowly followed after her, stopping when she saw Bellamy's car parked one down from theirs. He was working, no doubt. If only he wasn't. Then he could have come and hung out with her and Harper. She could have counted down to the new year with him by her side.

She spotted something on the hood of his car that didn't look quite right. It looked all scraped up, and when she got closer and took a look at it, she frowned. Keyed into his car were two threatening words: _Stay away._

It didn't take a genius . . . it _really_ didn't take a genius to figure out who they were telling him to stay away from. She felt a stab of guilt.

"Clarke!" Harper called, waving her over. "Come on!"

As much as she would have loved to just head in and dance around for fun right now, she didn't feel like she _could_ have fun without talking to Bellamy first. So she said, "I'll meet you in there," and headed over to the strip club entrance instead.

The strip club side of the place definitely wasn't as crowded as the dance club part tonight. With New Year's Eve being a big holiday for couples, they just weren't attracting the usual crowd. After all, what man dragged his wife or girlfriend with him along to a strip joint? For that reason, Anya had shied away from having Clarke or Harper or even Vivian dance. It was Roma and their newest hire tonight, a girl named Shantal who had come from Polis. She had some prior pole-dancing experience, but Clarke had overheard Luna and Anya talking about whether or not she had any wow-factor. Tonight was probably a test-run for her.

Clarke glanced around, eyes immediately going to the bar. Bellamy was mixing up some kind of shot, and Murphy was working with him. She thought about heading straight over there, but . . . when she glanced to her left and saw Echo, talking to a group of men, she had another idea.

"Hey, Echo," she called.

The other girl slowly turned around, looking not at all thrilled to see her.

Clarke motioned with her head for her to step away from those guys so they could talk for a moment. She wanted to have a conversation before Roan noticed she was there. Right now, he was planted on the couch with some of his male friends, and they were watching Shantal halfheartedly swing around the pole. He and the other guys all seemed more interested in the drinks in their hands than they did in her.

Already glaring, Echo folded her arms over her chest and stepped into the corner with Clarke. "I see there's a newer new girl," she remarked. "Think you might be replaced?"

Clarke rolled her eyes, amazed that someone she'd barely even interacted with could have such obvious disdain for her. "We need to talk."

Echo's face scrunched up. "What could we _possibly_ have to talk about?"

"Your boyfriend, for starters," Clarke blurted. "Do you know what he's been doing to me?"

Echo snorted derisively. "Don't make it sound like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you didn't consent."

Had she, though? She wasn't even sure anymore. Not saying no wasn't exactly the same thing as saying yes. That wasn't her concern right now, however. Bellamy was. "So you do know," she said.

Echo nodded wordlessly.

"And you're okay with that?" Clarke could barely even fathom such a relationship. If Finn so much as expressed interest in another girl, she would have been so upset with him. "How can you just sit back and watch while your boyfriend cheats on you?"

"Roan and I have an open relationship," Echo claimed.. "I don't hold it against him, and he wouldn't hold it against me."

"So you just let him do what he wants?" It didn't sound fair at all. From what she could tell, Echo wasn't sleeping with other men. It seemed like a double standard, no matter how much Echo tried to convince her otherwise. "He got Ontari _pregnant_ ," she reminded her. "He's doing things to me that . . ." She trailed off, shuddering as she recalled the coarse feel of his hands in places she didn't want them, his lips sucking greedily on her skin. "Woman to woman, I don't know how you can put up with that."

"It's because I don't care about you, Clarke," Echo snarled. "And I know Roan's just going through a phase."

"Is that what this is?" It felt like a lot more than that to her.

"Yes. It used to be Ontari, now it's you. You can understand that, can't you? You're going through a phase of your own, a Bellamy one."

Clarke tensed, surprised that Echo of all people had picked up on that.

"Oh, come on, don't act so shocked," Echo said, narrowing her eyes at her. "You want him, almost as bad as I do."

Clarke tried not to listen, to block it out, but it was hard when Echo just kept going.

"You want his hands on you, you want him inside of you." She closed the distance between them, brazenly asking, "Tell me, have you sucked his cock yet?"

It was such an intrusive question that she could help but flinch. "No."

"Was it good?"

" _Echo_." This wasn't about her feelings for Bellamy, whatever they were at this point; this was about his safety. "Look, if you really like him as much as you say you do, then you'll talk to Roan. You'll get him to stop threatening him. That's the only reason why I've let Roan . . ." She stopped short of going into detail about the things she'd done with him as of late. "It's because I don't want him to hurt Bellamy," she said, nervous that her efforts weren't working now that she'd gotten a glimpse of the words on his car. "And you don't want that either, right?"

Echo thought about it a moment and agreed, "Right."

"So then convince Roan to let up on him. Please." Maybe this girl had some sort of sway over Roan, some kind of power. Maybe hearing it from her would make him change his mind about what he was doing, make him stop doing it altogether.

"You know what I think?" Echo said. "I think Bellamy should just listen to him and leave you the hell alone. I've seen your cunt. I doubt it's worth it."

Clarke ignored the jab and whimpered, "You won't help me?"

Echo glared at her contemptuously. "No. Roan can do whatever he wants." Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she turned and strode back to the men she'd been talking to before, automatically smiling and laughing with them as if she and Clarke _hadn't_ just had a conversation about what a creep her boyfriend was.

 _Dammit,_ Clarke thought, sulking away disappointedly. She knew that'd been a long shot, but it'd been the best chance she had at getting something to change. What now? Was she going to have to talk to Roan herself? Do more than talk to him?

There was a lull in customers as she got to the bar, so that afforded her the perfect chance to sit down and talk to Bellamy a bit. "Hey," he said, "were you talking to Echo?"

"Yeah." She wished he hadn't seen that, but of course he had.

"About what?"

She couldn't think up any little white lie that would make sense, so she just brushed it off as, "Nothing important," and tried to change the subject. "So are people liking the new girl?"

"Not as much as they like you." He glanced up at the stage and shook his head. "Don't worry, your status is safe."

 _My status,_ she thought, _as Number One._ How the hell had that happened?

"Where's Harper?" he inquired. "I thought you were hanging out with her tonight."

"She's already over there," she replied. "I'm gonna go, too. Just . . ." She grazed her fingertips along the bar, drawing imaginary lines there. "Well, I wanted to come see you."

"To wish me Happy New Year?" he guessed.

"Yeah." She felt awkward as she sat there, trying to come up with some possible way to segue into asking him about his car, and she found herself talking about something _completely_ unrelated when she teasingly asked, "You gonna kiss anyone at midnight?"

"We'll see," he said. "How about you?"

"Finn and I already had our midnight kiss," she informed him. "At 10:00."

"How romantic."

It kind of had been . . . in a way. Could've been more so if they'd been outside the walls of their own apartment. "I would have loved to go to Times Square to see the ball drop," she admitted. In fact, she'd been about to suggest the idea to Finn when he'd told her about this big party Cage was throwing tonight and how he just _had_ to be there.

"Ah, I've done that before," Bellamy said. "It's overrated."

"Really?" On TV, it always looked so fun.

"Yeah, you just stand outside and freeze your ass off."

"Huh." She wasn't exactly itching to go wait outside for twenty-four hours beforehand, but a couple hours felt like something she could tolerate. "I still wanna do it someday, though," she said, "just to get the experience."

"Well, maybe next year."

"Yeah." If Finn had _another_ party, though, then he wouldn't be there with her. And she didn't want to go alone. "Will you take me?" she asked him, surprising even herself with the question.

"Sure," he answered with little hesitation.

She smiled, already looking forward to it. But her smile faded when she remembered why she'd even come in here in the first place. Despite what she'd led him to believe, it wasn't _just_ to wish him a happy new year. "So what happened to your car?" she asked, cutting straight to the point.

At first, he acted like he didn't know. "What?"

"The hood," she specified. "Somebody keyed it."

"Oh, yeah, that." He shrugged, as though it were no big deal. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" _Bullshit._

"Yeah, I'm sure it's nothing," he said. "You know how many times my car's been keyed or my tires have been slashed in the past five years, Clarke? That's just life in the city."

It wasn't just some random key marks, though. If she'd seen the words written there, so had he. He knew more than he was letting on, but he didn't want her to worry. _Too late,_ she thought, already worrying.

"Hey, Roan's been drinking a lot tonight," he said, glancing over her shoulder. "I don't want him to see you here."

She didn't exactly want him to see her there, either, but she was nervous about leaving Bellamy alone. "Give me a ride home?" she asked.

He nodded.

She breathed a small sigh of relief. _Good._ If she was with Bellamy and Bellamy was with her, she felt like . . . like they'd be okay. Like Roan wouldn't bother with any threats towards either one of them unless they were by themselves.

It was a horrible thing being so stressed out and so paranoid on a daily basis, but Clarke tried to relax and have a good time with Harper that night. She danced, had a few drinks, danced some more. The music was lit, because it wasn't just a DJ tonight. There was a house band up on stage, and they could play anything. Pop hits, rock hits, even their own version of rap and EDM. Clarke whipped her hair back and forth to the beat, shook her hips from side to side, threw her arms in the air, and just in general let loose. Harper did the same, and they both had to reject the advances of some half-drunk guys who wanted to dance with them. They commanded the center of the floor, garnering a lot of attention simply because even people who hadn't seen them perform next door recognized them from the posters outside.

It was a fun time, one that allowed Clarke to push that stress and paranoia away for most of the night. They counted down at midnight, too, _loudly_. With no one to kiss, Clarke puckered up, and Harper obliged by giving her a quick peck on the lips. They both laughed, but afterward, Harper called Monty and gave him a kiss through the phone.

Clarke got a midnight text from Finn, which was . . . well, better than nothing.

Clarke knew Bellamy would be working until 2:00 at least, so well past midnight, even when Harper started getting tired, she kept dancing. Things took a turn, however, when the house band's singer all of a sudden got sick and had to leave the stage. She didn't come back, and that left them with no music other than instrumentals. The crowd started to get antsy and began to complain, because they wanted songs they could sing along to.

"We should just go," Harper suggested. "I'm tired."

 _But I wanna stay,_ Clarke thought. She couldn't leave yet.

The band's guitarist came up to the microphone and said, "As you can see, we're without a singer. So if you've got some pipes, come on up. Sing something we can play and we'll back you. Karaoke night, huh?"

 _Karaoke?_ she thought. She'd done plenty of karaoke back at the Bison Pub in Arkadia, some renditions of songs better than others. But never in front of this many people.

When no one took the stage after five more minutes and more and more people started to filter out, the guitarist went back up to the mic and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, now's your chance to shine. Sing a dance song, sing a ballad, sing whatever you want. We don't want you going anywhere."

People were _going_ to go, though, no doubt about that. They were going to go find some club with a DJ or with a house band whose singer wasn't puking her guts out backstage. Unless . . .

Clarke clutched at the treble clef dangling around her neck, the beautiful necklace Bellamy had gotten her for Christmas. He liked her singing voice. Hell, _she_ liked her singing voice. She just didn't get to use it very often anymore. These days, when she got up on stage, it was to dance, not to sing. These days, everything was different.

...

A slow night at the club got slower after midnight. No more girls were set to dance, so the only people who stuck around were the people who wanted to drink. Bellamy had to cut a few of them off and even called a cab for some of the sloppier ones. He wasn't going to be responsible for anybody getting behind the wheel when they shouldn't.

Close to closing, Harper came rushing in from the other side of the club. "Bellamy, come quick," she gasped.

"What?" Was something wrong with Clarke? His mind automatically went there.

"You have to see this," she said, smiling excitedly, and she ran back through the adjoining doors.

Whatever was going on didn't seem bad, so he was definitely intrigued. "You got this?" he asked Murphy.

"Yeah, man," Murphy responded.

He set his bar towel down on the counter and headed over to the other side of the club, catching up with Harper. He nearly bumped into her as she stood at the edge of the crowd, eyes glued onto the stage, where his own eyes soon roamed. Because Clarke was up there. Behind the microphone. The house band was playing. And she was _singing._

" _There now, steady love, so few come and don't go_

 _Will you, won't you be the one I'll always know?_

 _When I'm losing my control, the city spins around_

 _You're the only one who knows, you slow it down."_

He gazed up at her in awe, not sure if what he was seeing was actually even real. Was that really the girl who strummed her guitar out on her balcony up there? In front of all these people? People who, despite the song's slow tempo, looked as transfixed as he did.

" _Oh-ooh-oh, Oh-ooh-oh_

 _Be my baby_

 _Oh-ooh-oh . . ._

 _Oh-ooh-oh, Oh-ooh-oh_

 _Be my baby_

 _I'll look after you."_

Her eyes were shut as every word came out of her mouth sounding like . . . silk or something.

" _And I'll look after you . . ."_

Sappy as it was, he felt tears sting his eyes as he listened to her. Clarke's voice was as beautiful as she was. And seeing her up on stage using that instead of her body to keep people's attention . . . it was everything he wanted for her, everything she deserved.

" _If ever there was a doubt_

 _My love, he leans into me_

 _This most assuredly counts_

 _He says most assuredly . . ."_

It was like she was in her own little world up there, just her and the song. And she was feeling it.

" _Oh-ooh-oh, Oh-ooh-oh_

 _Be my baby_

 _I'll look after you_

 _After you . . ."_

He heard her sing those words, and all _he_ wanted to do was be the one to look after her.

" _Oh-ooh-oh, Oh-ooh-oh_

 _Be my baby_

 _Oh-ooh-oh . . ."_

Her hand gripped the microphone tightly; her tongue darted out to wet her gorgeous lips. Her face took on almost a look of pain as she continued to belt it out.

" _It's always have and never hold_

 _But you've begun to feel like home_

 _What's mine is yours to leave or take_

 _What's mine is yours to make your own!"_

His heart thudded in his chest, felt like it was beating just for her. And it probably was. He couldn't look away; he didn't want to.

" _Oh-ooh-oh, Oh-ooh-oh_

 _Be my baby_

 _Oh-ooh-oh . . ."_

Her eyes fluttered open as the song came to an end, and when the music stopped, he heard her inhale sharply, like she'd been holding her breath the whole time. The crowd cheered and clapped for her, and some people whistled. Not the way they did when she was dancing, but just as a way of complimenting her, making their appreciation known.

"Yeah, girl!" Harper exclaimed, yelling over everybody. "Woo!"

Clarke smiled modestly, almost as if she couldn't believe she'd done this, and when her eyes met Bellamy's . . . she looked surprised to see him there. He grinned at her, noting the necklace around her neck. Not the diamond Finn had given her, but the treble clef that had come from him. Maybe it'd inspired her.

She looked so happy when she smiled at him, genuinely proud of herself as she stood up there on stage, still garnering applause, soaking it all in. He loved seeing her have that moment, and he wanted to see her have more of them.

 _God,_ he thought, just staring at her in amazement, _I love her so much._


	30. Chapter 30

_Chapter 30_

"Harper can't stop raving about what a fun Christmas she had," Clarke informed Monty as she perused the aisles of the nearest, cheapest grocery store. Since she was busy grabbing items and pushing her cart, she had to hold her phone against her shoulder with just her head. "I think she wants to go back for spring break."

"But I wanna go back to New York," Monty said.

"Oh, I see you guys spending a _lot_ of money on plane tickets this year." Luckily, Monty's family was kind of loaded. He was going to need all the money he could get.

"I _really_ like her, Clarke," he said.

"That's _really_ obvious," she teased. Examining the expiration date on a carton of milk, she shrugged and put it in her cart, figuring she could use it in her morning cereal and have it gone by the time it went bad. "So have you told your family what she does for . . . you know, for a living?" she hesitantly asked, just because she was curious.

"Yeah."

Whoa. That surprised her. "And they're okay with it?"

"Well, they weren't sure what to think at first," he said. "But I told them before she got here so they had some time to process it. And when they met her, of course they liked her. And when I mentioned she's gonna graduate this spring and be a physical therapist, they were impressed."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. They understand she's just doing it to make ends meet."

That gave her hope then, that someday she could be honest with her parents and they wouldn't hold her work as a stripper against her, wouldn't judge her too harshly for it. "Yeah, it's really tough out here, you know?" she said. "Everything's so expensive."

"You probably pay double the rent you'd pay back home, huh?"

"Probably." The change in the cost of living had definitely taken some getting used to. But that was why she worked at Grounders. Without the money she was making, Finn wouldn't have been able to afford his new car. She wouldn't be able to go buy groceries right now. His paycheck, it seemed, was barely enough to pay the rent.

"Hey, Monty?" It sort of seemed like a good time to open up to him, to be honest. If he didn't have a problem with Harper working as a stripper, surely he wouldn't have a problem with her doing it, too. "There's something I wanna tell you."

"What is it?" he prompted.

"Well, Harper's not the only one who . . ." She trailed off, nearly colliding carts with a woman traipsing down the aisle in the opposite direction. God, was she really going to confess this here, in a _grocery store?_ Where anyone and everyone could overhear every single word she was saying?

No, this wasn't the right place.

"She's not the only one who gets up on stage in front of dozens of people," she said, covering up her near bold confession with a much tamer one: "I got up in front of people and sang the other night. And it was kind of awesome."

"That's great, Clarke," he said, sounding excited for her, way more excited than he would have been to hear that she knew how to work a pole, too, now. "See, I think something's gonna happen for you out there. I don't when, and I don't know what, but I don't think you're gonna be waiting tables forever."

She smiled sadly, appreciating his support, even though she probably didn't deserve it since she'd been dishonest with him just now. A lie by omission was still a lie, and it didn't feel good lying to one of her closest friends.

...

The play was days away. And it still wasn't ready. Shumway was scheduling rehearsals left and right, and everyone was struggling to find time off of their other jobs to be there. Gina, in particular, seemed stressed. She was flubbing up a lot of the dialogue lately and seemed to be struggling to concentrate. During one scene between her character, Bellamy's character, and Clarke's, she said, "Caroline, would you just give us a second to . . . to . . ." And she really couldn't think of the rest of it. Even though it was just one word. "Line!" she called, seeming completely befuddled now that she'd messed up.

"Gina. You're _killing_ me here," Shumway growled overdramatically as he rose from his seat. "How do you not know your lines by now? Are you retarded? Did you ride here on the short bus?"

 _Oh my god,_ Clarke thought, disgusted that he would say that to anyone, let alone the female lead he'd been working with for months now.

"Hey, leave her alone," Bellamy jumped in on her behalf. "She's doing fine."

"She's not doing fine. She's messing everything up!" Shumway's eyes were wide and bloodshot, like he hadn't slept in days, and he looked like he was about to pull his hair out.

"It doesn't help that you're bein' an ass about it," Bellamy shot back.

Gina was much more passive about the whole thing. "I'm sorry, sir," she said quietly, "I'm just getting nervous."

"Don't get nervous; get ready!" he snapped. "We're doing the whole scene again." He returned to his seat, rubbing his forehead as if to ease the anxiety he was bringing upon himself with his antics.

"Hey, you got this," Bellamy assured her.

The look on Gina's face wasn't a convinced one, though. Clarke would have loved to say something encouraging, but she worried that might do more harm than good. Gina definitely wasn't her biggest fan.

After rehearsal, she caught a ride home with Bellamy, seriously wondering if they'd have this thing ready to go come opening night. She knew her lines, and her costumes all fit. Same with Bellamy. But Gina seemed to be regressing, and she had little time to pull it together.

"I feel bad," she admitted as they made their way up the stairs.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it seems like Gina gets the most nervous in her scenes with me." Whenever she just shared the stage with Bellamy, she seemed fine, but whenever Clarke was up there, that was when the mistakes started to happen.

"I think you kinda intimidate her," he said.

"I don't know why. She's the actress; I'm not."

"Yeah, but . . . look at you, Clarke." He held open the door to the third floor.

"What? You're saying I'm pretty?" she teased, easing past, smiling faintly.

"You know what I'm saying."

She really didn't, though. Was he saying he thought she was hot? Beautiful? Sexy? Because not one of those words meant the same thing. She kind of wanted to ask him about it, but it seemed like a better idea not to, so as they slowly made their way down the hall, she instead inquired, "So are you nervous?"

"Not really. More excited than anything else," he answered nonchalantly. "What about you?"

She bit her bottom lip and confessed, "A little."

"Come on, it can't be any more nerve-racking than getting up and dancing in front of people. Or singing in front of people like you did the other night."

"No, that wasn't bad," she said, stopping in front of her door. "Because that's something I know I'm good at. This is foreign territory."

He stopped and stood in front of her, reassuring her, "You'll be fine."

Yeah, she felt like she would be. Her part was way smaller than Gina's, and she _was_ used to being up in front of people. At least this time she'd have more clothes on.

"Why did you choose the song you did the other night, by the way?" he asked her suddenly.

"You mean the song by The Fray?"

"That's The Fray?" He made a face. "I haven't heard them since middle school."

Yeah, it was outdated, but the passage of time didn't make it any less of a beautiful song. "I don't know, I just like it," she replied. "And the band knew how to play it, so . . ." It'd seemed like the perfect fit.

"Does it make you think of Finn?" he asked.

She inhaled sharply, almost . . . alarmed that he would ask that. But not as alarmed as she was by her own answer. "No," she whispered, wishing it did.

"No?" His warm brown eyes never left hers, and she felt like . . . like she was hypnotized or something. Because she couldn't look away, either. His face was dangerously close to hers right now, and she wasn't sure, but it felt like they were getting closer, both of them leaning in a bit, eyes fluttering down to each other's lips . . .

"I should go," she blurted, stepping back a bit before she did something she would regret. "Goodnight, Bellamy."

He didn't say goodnight, just stood there wordlessly as she slipped inside her door and locked it into place.

 _Shit,_ she thought, stepping out of her shoes. She hung her coat on the coat rack and slinked towards the bedroom, feeling ashamed that she'd even contemplated kissing Bellamy right now. It wasn't that feeling attracted to him was anything new, but having to fight the urge to act on that attraction . . . that was.

She found Finn asleep already when she flipped on the bedroom light, and he squinted against it and covered his eyes with his arm.

"Sorry," she said.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he glanced at the bedside clock and remarked, "You're home late."

"Dress rehearsal. Ran long." She thought about crawling into bed next to him, but . . . it wasn't _that_ late. They could still . . .

Pushing her pants down, she said, "I missed you," and hurriedly got on top of him, kissing him wantonly. Even though he was still half asleep, he kissed her back, hands coming up to hold her hips as she circled her groin near his, hoping to get a reaction out of him.

"You must've _really_ missed me," he murmured against her mouth.

She hadn't, though. Not once all day. She'd been busy, sure, but still . . . she'd barely thought about him. Until now. Until she'd gotten home and saw him lying there.

Sitting up, she crisscrossed her arms and grabbed the bottom of her shirt with both hands. Lifting it over her head, she tried to tell herself that this was _not_ a knee-jerk reaction to almost kissing Bellamy right out there in the hallway. Finn was her boyfriend. She wanted him.

Only him.

...

"God, I forgot how contoured I look in stage makeup," Bellamy said as he sat in the makeup chair and examined his complexion on opening night. "I look like a diversity Ken doll."

The guy in charge of makeup, Simon, chuckled, and promised him, "It'll look better up on stage."

"You're still gonna be able to see my facial expressions, though, right?" he touched his cheeks, sort of concerned how everything looked all smoothed out right now.

"Yes. It's not Botox."

"Good." It wasn't like this was an action-packed play or anything. Everything hinged on the emotion in the story, making it believable. "You can't see my freckles, though," he complained. As much as they'd bothered him as a kid, he liked his freckles now. They made him unique.

"Just out of curiosity," Simon said as he finished smoothing some makeup towards Bellamy's hairline, "do you have freckles . . . _everywhere_?"

Bellamy grunted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Whatever, I'll just ask Clarke."

He made a face despite the heavy contouring. "Clarke doesn't know."

"She doesn't?" Simon sounded surprised. "Huh, could've fooled me."

 _He thinks Clarke and I are sleeping together,_ Bellamy realized. Was that rumor going around now? Did Clarke know about it?

"Have you seen that red dress she's gonna wear?" Simon fanned himself exaggeratedly. "She's so hot in it, I can't even. And I'm not even straight. I can't imagine what a get-up like that does to you."

"Yeah, her ass looks pretty amazing in it," he admitted unabashedly. It was the perfect fit on her, outlined every dip and curve.

"You're gonna take her home and bang her after this, right?"

"I wish." He sighed, anticipating he'd have to settle for taking her out to eat. Even though he'd rather just . . . eat her out. "Do me a favor, don't tell her we had this conversation," he said. Simon was a pretty chatty guy, and he didn't want any word of this being told to Clarke.

"Oh, I won't," Simon assured him. "She's in the makeup chair next, but I'll just tell her we talked about unicorns or puppies or something."

Oh, yeah, like that would be believable.

When Bellamy got out of the makeup chair, he saw Alexander pacing around impatiently by a rack full of women's clothing. "Hey, Bellamy?" the high-strung designer called. "Why don't you go get your costar? She's ten minutes late to wardrobe."

"Yeah, I'll go find her," Bellamy offered. She'd probably just lost track of time. There was a lot going on backstage right now between costumes and makeup, last minute rehearsals and set-work. Shumway had put most of the male extras to work as stage hands. Whether they had one line of dialogue or five, they were expected to help rotate the sets between scenes, and right now, they were getting the first one put up.

Bellamy headed back to the dressing room that had been designated as Gina's and knocked on the door in search of his costar. "Hey, Gina?" he called. No response, so he knocked again. "Gina?" Wanting to make sure she was okay, he opened the door, hesitantly stepping inside. He feared he might find her curled up in the corner, crying because she was so nervous. But the room was empty. Light was still on . . . but it was empty. And none of her stuff was in there.

 _Maybe she's in a different room,_ he speculated, closing the door. He made his way further down the hallway to the room Clarke and the other girls were using. He heard them talking and laughing as opened the door.

"Ooh, hey, Bellamy!" that Cassie chick exclaimed, clearly happy to see him. "Wanna play?"

"No." He did a quick scan of the room—no Gina—and motioned for Clarke to come to the door.

She got up and told the other girls, "Just skip me," as she came towards him. He brought her out into the hall and shut the door.

"We were playing truth or dare," she told him. "I got dared to-"

"You seen Gina?" he cut in.

"No," she answered. "Why? Is she not here?"

"She's not in her dressing room. I don't know where she is."

Clarke frowned in confusion. "We do this thing in an hour. Shouldn't she be here by now?"

"Yeah." They'd arrived at about the same time, but an hour or so ago, she'd gone into her dressing room and he'd gone into his, and he hadn't seen her since.

"Okay, well, I'll go look for her," Clarke offered.

"You're supposed to go to makeup."

She waved that off. "Makeup can wait. Let's find Gina first."

Yeah, priorities and all that. The play could go on if Clarke wasn't wearing makeup. It couldn't go on without Gina.

He went one way, and Clarke went the other. Searching through extra changing rooms and janitor's closets, he started to grow worried. It was a theater, and not even that big of one. There were only so many places Gina could be.

He ended up stumbling upon two of the male actors hooking up with each other out back, but hey, he didn't judge. And Gina clearly wasn't with them, so he just kept looking. He tried not to appear too frantic, because he didn't want anyone else to get concerned.

Unfortunately, he ended up crossing paths with Shumway, who was going to be frantic about _everything_ tonight no matter what. "What's wrong? Who are you looking for?" he almost demanded.

Bellamy sighed. "Gina."

" _What?_ " his director shrieked. "Gina's not here?"

"No, she's around here . . . somewhere." He just didn't know where yet. Hopefully Clarke had had better luck than him.

Dramatically, Shumway held his hand to his heart and took a deep breath. "Bellamy, find her."

The longer he searched, the more hopeless he felt. Looking for Gina was starting to feel like looking for a needle in a haystack. He figured his best bet would be to go get his phone and see if she'd texted him, and if she hadn't, then hell, he'd just call her. But when he got back to his dressing room, he stopped short of even picking up his phone. Because there was something on his mirror, a piece of paper taped to it.

He walked over and picked it up, reading the short note scrawled there: _Tell everyone I'm so sorry. I don't mean to let them down. I just can't do this. –G_

A feeling of disappointment settled in the pit of his stomach, his worst fear come true. She'd bailed. Gina had bailed on him, bailed on all of them, bailed on this play. The nerves or the berating from Shumway or something . . . it must have been too much. And now she was gone.

Clarke came into the room a few seconds later, asking, "Hey, did you find her?"

"No." He handed her the note, letting her read it herself.

Clarke's mouth dropped open as the shock set in. "What? She just left?"

He nodded, kind of pissed. They'd worked their asses off for months now to get this play ready to go, put up with a director neither one of them could stand, and now she'd left him hanging. If the play fell through this opening night, nobody would bother coming back tomorrow or the next night. It'd just be . . . over. All that time and all that work and all that energy for nothing.

"What're we gonna do?" Clarke asked fretfully.

He sighed, not sure. But the first thing he had to do was tell Shumway.

...

Everyone was freaking out when they heard the Gina news, of course, but the director was freaking out a little more than everyone else. "Oh my god, what're we gonna do? What're we gonna do?" he babbled fearfully as everyone circled around him. "People are already showing up. The critics are here. This will be the end of me. I'll never work in this town _ever_ again."

"We can't do the play without her," one of the male actors lamented. "It's over."

A resigned sadness settled over all of them, and a few people even started to cry. "So much for my first part," Cassie mumbled dejectedly.

Clarke felt so bad for them. Not so much for herself, because acting wasn't her ambition in life or anything. But for the rest of these people, for Bellamy . . .

 _Oh, god, Bellamy._ She felt the worst of all for him.

Amazingly, however, he didn't seem to have that same resigned look in his eyes. His head wasn't hanging like everyone else's was. If anything, he looked . . . contemplative. Determined. "No, it's not over," he blurted suddenly. "Someone else can play the part."

 _Someone else?_ Clarke thought, automatically looking around.

"Clarke can do it."

"What?" she screeched, thinking she couldn't _possibly_ have heard him right. "No, I haven't—I don't . . . Bellamy!" He was kidding, right? Because he couldn't be serious.

"Come on, how many times have you rehearsed these scenes with me?" he said, turning to face her and only her. "You know every line."

"But I didn't practice them." Just because she knew what to say didn't mean she knew _how_ to say it, or where to stand or what to do with her hands and . . . they couldn't just throw her into the role and expect her to get it.

"Just go out there and be natural," he told her. "Clarke, I know you can do this."

"No, I can't." She couldn't even believe he was suggesting this.

"You can. Please," he begged. A few of the other actors and actresses began to echo him, pleading, "Yeah, please."

"I'm not . . ." She didn't want to let them down or anything, but this was way too much pressure to put on her shoulders. "I'm not an actress," she said. "I only stepped in for the other girl who got hurt."

"And you've done . . . a pretty good job," Shumway interjected. For him, that was like the ultimate compliment. "Do you really know every line?"

Clarke looked at him mouth agape, shocked that he was really considering this, too. "Yes, but-"

"Good. Then you're doing it."

"But wait a minute, what about my part?" Had anyone here even thought about that?

"I can do your part," Cassie volunteered eagerly. "I only have, like, two lines anyway. I'll just lump them together with what Caroline says."

"Wait . . ." Clarke felt desperate to stop this. It was all happening too fast.

"Okay, okay, decision made then," Shumway declared. "Cassie's playing Caroline, Clarke's playing Alyssa."

"No, Clarke is not. Clarke is freaking out right now!" she yelled.

"No one else knows the lines," Shumway said. "If you don't do this, then this whole thing, everything we've worked for . . . is a failure."

She whimpered, really feeling the weight of the guilt-trip he was laying on her. But there was also the anxiety of knowing that it could _still_ be a failure if she got up there and totally botched it.

She looked around the small circle of actors, at faces silently pleading her, mouths whispering prayers. Besides her, Bellamy squeezed her hand, and she felt herself give in. "Okay."

"Yes!" everyone exclaimed, some of them jumping up and down.

"Oh, god, what am I saying?" Her heart was racing now, and she had a feeling it wouldn't stop until the play was done. "Okay."

A few people hugged her—hell, even Shumway hugged her—but then he pushed her away from the group and said, "Hurry, hurry, back to wardrobe so they can make some changes."

Everything was a whirlwind after that. One second, she was in the makeup chair, getting more foundation caked onto her face than she ever would have thought possible. Then they had to redo her hair, because they'd straightened it for Caroline, but it needed to be wavy for Alyssa. Then she went to Miriam for costumes, and all the while she was getting fitted, she heard people mulling about in the theater, talking, laughing, taking their seats. Shumway kept yelling things like, "Thirty more minutes!" and "twenty more minutes!"

"We're just gonna keep most of the looks we had in mind for you," Miriam said as she did some stitching on the side of the gown Clarke now had to wear at the end of the play. "Not the red dress, though. That's too ho-ish, and Alyssa's not a ho."

 _But what if I am?_ Clarke thought, and it was an unsettling thought. This wasn't her forte; she didn't act. She got up on stage in ho-ish clothing and took it off so men could ogle what was underneath. This Alyssa character was sweet and innocent and—hell, the play was even called _Innocence_ , and what if that was something she just couldn't project anymore? After everything she'd done these past few months, all the changes her life had undergone, what if she just wasn't an innocent girl anymore?

"You must be stressed," Clarke empathized, trying to remind herself that she wasn't the only one making last-minute changes.

"I'm alright," Miriam said. "Truthfully, I always pictured you as the lead anyway."

"Yeah, but you have to make all these last-minute alterations."

The designer shrugged. "It's nothing major. You're just a little chestier than Gina is, so we have to bring it out a little. Nothing I can't handle."

Clarke sighed shakily, wishing she was brimming with that same confidence right about now. "Well, _I'm_ stressed."

"You know all the lines, right?"

"I think so." Whatever she didn't know, she'd just have to adlib.

"Then you'll be fine."

"But I went from being in three scenes to being in almost _every_ scene. And prior to this, my only theater experience was playing one of the wise men in my church's Christmas production when I was a kid." She may have been a sheep in that one year, too. She couldn't remember.

"Clarke, relax," Miriam said, giving her shoulders a gentle shake. "Come on, believe in yourself. Your director must have faith in you if he's letting you play the part."

 _Or he has no other options,_ she thought.

"I think you're gonna shine up there."

"Really?" That was nice to hear, but . . . not likely.

"Yeah. In fact, I'd totally go out with you after this if you were gay."

Clarke smirked. "I'm bi, actually."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. But I have a boyfriend."

"Oh, of course." Miriam smiled. "That's kind of cool that you get to act with him."

Clarke made a face. "Wait, Bellamy? No, Bellamy's not . . . he's not my boyfriend."

"He's not? Huh. I just assumed . . ."

"Why do people always assume that?" Clarke readjusted the dress around her chest area, hoping her boobs didn't fall out of it. It was definitely tight. And the cleavage was . . . a lot.

"You guys just give off that vibe, I guess," Miriam said. "I think everyone thinks you're dating."

"Well, we're not." Talking about Bellamy was just making her feel even more nervous. Because some of the scenes she was going to have to act out with him tonight . . . well, it was a romantic play. It was a _love_ story.

"Is your boyfriend gonna come watch tonight?" Miriam asked.

"No. He had to work. Thank God." He was going to try to come watch it tomorrow night, so hopefully Gina pulled herself together and came back for night two. "Are there really critics here?" she asked, wishing she could peek out the curtains and see how many people were in the audience.

"Some."

She cringed. "Like from the _New York Times_ or what?"

"No, it's not a big enough play for that." Miriam leaned in closer, squinting her eyes as she put the final stitches into the side of Clarke's dress. "Theater critics, design critics, people who write small blogs and articles. And every audience member's a critic, too, in their own way."

"So basically everyone's gonna be judging me," Clarke summarized.

"Basically." Miriam stood back, smiling proudly at her handiwork, and gave Clarke a thumb's up. Maybe it was meant to be encouraging, but she was too worked up to be encouraged right now.

Minutes before they were set to start and Shumway was up on stage explaining to the audience the inspiration for the play he had both written and directed—oh, and he made sure to repeat the fact that he'd both written and directed it several times—Bellamy found her as she was pacing back and forth, and he asked, "You ready?"

She totally wasn't, but that curtain was coming up any minute now, and she was the first one out on the stage. "I don't know if I can do this," she squeaked out.

"Hey, I know you, Clarke," he said, taking both of her hands in his. "You can do anything you set your mind to."

Her palms were clammy, and she had no doubt he could feel that. But he didn't let go of her hand, and she didn't want him to. "I'm so nervous," she whispered.

"Don't be," he said, grazing his thumbs over her knuckles. "It's you and it's me up there, okay?"

 _You and me,_ she thought, trying to nod. _You and me._

He grinned at her. "We got this."

Oh god, she hoped they did.

"Places!" somebody backstage hissed. It was so dark back there, she didn't even know who was who. Bellamy's hands slipped from her own, and he gently nudged her forward, up onto a few steps. She stood on the side of the stage, trying not to throw up, waiting for the curtain to open, and when it did . . .

The lights on that stage seemed so bright. And it looked like most of the seats in the theater were full. There had probably been about just as many people at Grounders a couple weeks ago for her first headline performance, so . . . at least she knew she'd been up on stage in front of this many people before.

The first scene was a pretty simple one. Pivotal, though. It took place with an outdoor backdrop with store-lined sidewalks not unlike the ones all over this town, and it was the scene where, after years apart, Nathan and Alyssa met each other again. She didn't have to say much, which she was thankful for. All she had to do was pretend to be looking inside the store windows and wait for Bellamy to come up onstage.

"Alyssa?"

She whipped her head towards him, turning her body a bit along with it so that her back wasn't facing the audience too much. She almost called him by his real name and had to catch herself. "Nathan," she said, trying to look surprised. She wasn't sure whether she succeeded or just looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

Their dialogue was purposefully awkward after that. He stopped short of completing his sentences and started in again. She stuttered, partly because of nerves, partly because she figured, if she was a girl who was seeing the love of her life for the first time in three years, then yeah, she might stutter a bit.

The scene ended how it was supposed to, with him inviting her out to a bar that night to catch up and her turning to walk away. She stumbled as she left the stage, but the audience seemed to find it endearing as they laughed a bit. She played it off as an intended misstep, because . . . hey, Alyssa might stumble as well as stutter.

Sets had to be rotated quickly in between scenes to keep the play moving. There were five main ones: Alyssa's apartment (which could easily be redressed to become Nathan's house), the bar, the street, and the exterior of Nathan's house, which wouldn't show up until the end. Their makeshift stage crew worked deftly, getting the job done, and anyone who had free hands helped Miriam and Alexander with wardrobe. Clarke felt like a model backstage at a runway fashion show as people tugged her out of one ensemble and into another. At one point, she was pretty sure both she and Bellamy were topless and back to back, but it was such chaos, she didn't even get the chance to spin around and appreciate it.

The second scene was the most nerve-racking for Shumway, because it involved Cassie stepping into the Caroline role. It was the scene where Clarke would have originally strolled in wearing that red dress, staking her claim on her man, but Cassie didn't have the figure for that red dress. So she wore a different one, but to her credit, she came onstage with lots of attitude and sass. She probably didn't mind getting to coil her hands around Bellamy's arm or act all possessive of him, and Clarke had to admit . . . she was sort of glad not to be playing that part. Caroline was such a bitch of a character, very one-dimensional, too. There was no development for her, only for Alyssa and Nathan.

Throughout the play, Bellamy was just _so good_ in the role of Nathan. When she forgot a few lines and had to adlib, he went along with it and managed to get them back on track. When she accidentally stepped on his feet during the slow-dance scene, he made a joke out of it, and the whole audience laughed. She laughed, too, easing up in his arms, feeling the stress of the performance start to slip away with every scene. In her head, she pretended it was just her and Bellamy, and they were back in either her apartment or his, reading through this script together with no pressure attached. And that made it easier.

As was written in the script, he almost kissed her during the slow dance thing. But she almost forgot to pull away. In fact, she didn't even really lean back at all. She just turned her head to the side a little, and his forehead ended up pressed against hers, his lips mere inches away from her own. She felt an anticipatory shiver traverse her spine, and even though she tried to tell herself it was just because she was in character . . . she knew it had nothing to do with that.

The audience seemed to be responding—nobody had gotten up and left, at least. Every scene that was supposed to have flirtatious or seductive undertones elicited an _Ooh_ from them. And whenever Clarke headed backstage, everyone, including Shumway, assured her that she was doing a good job. But as the play wore on, the reality of what she and Bellamy were going to have to do at the end of it started to loom overhead. She'd tried not to think about it until now, but as she changed into her final outfit and the house exterior set was quickly erected, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

"I think this is going even better with you in it," Cassie raved quietly as Clarke's heart beat out of control. "You guys have chemistry."

"Cassie." She couldn't even register a word right now, because all she could think about was what awaited her. "You do know what scene we have to do now, don't you?" Oh god, was she really going to do this, run into Bellamy's arms and kiss him? What if she mistimed her jump and fell flat on her face? What if it was a bad kiss and ruined the entire play? Or what if it was a _good_ kiss and ruined their entire friendship?

Good God, no state cheer routine or impromptu karaoke performance or sultry show at Grounders had ever been as nerve-racking to her as this.

The curtain opened on the last scene, where Bellamy—Nathan—was outside his house, hammering away on a broken porch step. A fan was on low to make it look like there was a breeze, and the audio guys—Clarke didn't know where or who they were, but she knew there were audio guys—played some nature sounds to make it seem more realistic. Nothing major, just a few chirps from birds here and there, a car driving down an open highway. That whole small town kind of thing.

Again, Clarke almost said Bellamy's name as she stepped out onto that stage for what had to be a grandly epic finale for the play to come to any kind of satisfying ending at all. But she caught herself and instead said, "Nathan?"

Slowly, he put his hammer down, stood up, and turned around. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

For some reason, in that moment, all the lines left her head. Her mind went blank. What _was_ she doing here up on this stage with this man? How had this happened that, in a few short months, she'd gone from spending all her time with Finn to spending all her time with Bellamy? With someone who had been a stranger not all that long ago.

"I said what are you doing here?" he repeated.

Backstage, Shumway whispered her line, and the scene came flooding back. "I don't know," she said breathily. "I just ended up here."

Bellamy's eyes bore into hers, somewhat skeptically, somewhat longingly. With one look, he could convey what had been an entire paragraph's worth of explanation in the script. Nathan wasn't sure whether to believe Alyssa could really have shown up for him; he didn't want to get his hopes up and assume that seeing her meant they could be together.

Clarke carried on with the scene, launching into a long monologue about why they were meant to be, about how much she loved him and how she knew he loved her, too. They weren't _her_ words; she was just saying them. And she wasn't saying them to Bellamy. No, she was saying them to _Nathan_. In that moment, she was one fictional character professing her love to another fictional character. Nothing more.

But it started to feel like more when that kiss drew closer.

She'd watched Gina do it. She knew what was supposed to be done. And hell, she flung herself up onto a pole several times a week. This wouldn't be so different, except she'd be holding onto . . . a body. Bellamy's body.

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god_ , she thought, every inch of her body tingling with nervous anticipation as she turned her back to him and started to walk away.

"Alyssa, wait . . ."

And there was that line, the last line of the play, the one that signaled her to slowly turn back around and meet his eyes. She did, and the look that she saw there . . . it wasn't the same look he'd given Gina. In fact, it felt like it was just for her.

She couldn't hesitate too much, so she didn't. She ran forward, dramatically throwing herself into his arms, and their lips crashed together without delay right on the swell of the background music. She kissed him; he kissed _her_. And they just kept kissing as the audience cheered loudly, loving what they were seeing. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, delighting in the feel of his muscles, and he held her up as though she were nothing, mating his mouth to hers as though she were _everything_.

In that moment, even though she knew they were still acting . . . it felt real. It felt charged, electric, and as epic as it was supposed to. And it felt so natural. It felt like something they'd been doing for months now, even though they hadn't. It felt like . . . like she couldn't breathe. Like she didn't want to.

The music began to grow softer, signaling that he was supposed to set her down now, that they were supposed to gradually stop. But their mouths protested, both of them kissing their way through the movements where he slowly lowered her to her own two feet again. With what seemed like reluctance, he pulled away, and she had to remind herself to open her eyes. Because that was how the play ended. It was written in the script. After the kiss, Alyssa and Nathan gazed longingly, happily into each other's eyes, both of them amazed and in love, knowing they had the rest of their lives ahead of them. Lives that would be spent together. Always.

But she didn't feel like Alyssa, and he didn't look like Nathan as he stared down at her, his eyes swirling with passion. She felt a passion of her own, spreading through her chest, her stomach, every inch of her. His hands were still on her waist, and his face was still close enough for his breath to mingle with her own. The perfect way to end the play.

Except it didn't end that way. Because all of a sudden, he leaned forward, finding her mouth again. He resumed kissing her, much to her surprise, and the audience stood as the curtain slowly began to close. She knew he wasn't just acting anymore; he couldn't be. And she sure as hell wasn't. She put her hand over his heart and scrunched up his shirt as the tip of his tongue brushed ever so slightly against hers. Not enough to be vulgar, but enough to make her feel breathless.

People continued to cheer as they stood shrouded in darkness back behind the curtain now, gradually pulling away from each other. She heard the others back there celebrating the performance, Shumway loudest of all, but she couldn't make out anything they were saying. In fact, their voices started to just fade out altogether, and all she could hear was Bellamy's breathing, her own, the thud of her racing heartbeat. It was too dark to see if he was still looking at her, but she knew he was.

Her lips trembled; her body tingled. And neither one of them said a word.


	31. Chapter 31

_Chapter 31_

Although he was tired, Bellamy couldn't get to sleep. And he _knew_ there was no way he could get to sleep, so he didn't even try. Instead of lying down in bed, he roamed around his dark apartment, thinking back to everything that had happened tonight, not quite sure whether any of it was a good thing or a bad thing.

The crowd had liked the play. At least that part was obviously good. Standing ovation and everything. He couldn't very well ask for more. And despite the fact that Gina had ditched them, it'd all worked out for the better. Because getting to go through all those scenes with Clarke instead of her . . . it just felt different. Charged.

And he'd gotten to kiss her. After weeks, maybe even months, fantasizing about it, he'd gotten to kiss that girl, and it'd been just as amazing as he'd imagined it to be. Probably even more so. He wondered if she'd been as nervous about it as he had been.

It'd been a hell of a good kiss, but the bad part about it was that it'd been part of the play. And he'd wanted her to know that it was more than that to him. So that was why he'd kissed her again. Well, that and the fact that . . . he just couldn't resist. But she hadn't really said anything to him after that, had barely even looked at him, and now he was worried he'd fucked things up. He and Clarke had built up a pretty incredible friendship since she'd moved here, and that came as a shock to him more than anyone. He didn't typically bother to be friends with girls; he just skipped straight to the sex. But his relationship with Clarke had taken a different path to get to where it was now, and if he'd done something to derail it . . . shit.

He leaned against the sliding door that led out to his balcony, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. God, this was fucking confusing. Because even though he was worried about what he'd done tonight, he also couldn't bring himself to regret it. Because he'd kissed a lot of girls in his life, but not one of those girls compared to Clarke Griffin. Not one of those kisses compared to this one.

Around 3:00 in the morning, he discovered that his sister was still awake, for some reason, when she texted him. _How was the play?_ she asked. Although she didn't use a question mark, and that drove him nuts.

How was it? How the hell did he know? He'd figure that out tomorrow once he got the chance to talk to Clarke. He texted back a generic _Fine_ and then sent another one that said _Go to bed._ The only response he got to that one was an eye-rolling emoji.

Setting his phone down on his nightstand, he sighed and sank onto his bed, bending forward to drag his hands through his unruly hair. He wanted to call Clarke, maybe even climb over to her balcony and knock on the sliding door. Because he highly doubted she was asleep, either.

...

Curled up on her side, huddled under blankets, Clarke tried to shut her mind off. The problem was, it wasn't just her _mind_ that was working in overdrive. She wasn't just thinking about things; she was _feeling_ things, too. So many different things, she could barely distinguish one emotion from the next. There was excitement, definitely. Confusion, too. Some kind of passion or longing, and maybe even a little bit of anger, too. Because freaking Bellamy . . . if he'd just left it at one kiss, it wouldn't have been such a big deal. Sure, she still would have come home and touched herself, but she'd have been able to look at Bellamy tomorrow and be . . . somewhat normal. But that second kiss had just _really_ thrown her for a loop. Because the audience had already been cheering. They would have enjoyed the play even without it. He hadn't _had_ to add that in. They'd adlibbed plenty of lines tonight, but this was different. On another level.

She wasn't sure what time it was when Finn got home, but she knew it was really late. He came into the bedroom, apparently noticing she was awake, and said, "And the award for best actress goes to . . . Clarke Griffin!"

"Oh, yeah, right," she mumbled. "I wasn't that good tonight." Although . . . she felt like she hadn't been horrible. Given the fact that she'd been thrust into a role she never expected to play, she thought she'd ended up handling the pressure of it pretty well.

"I'm sure you were amazing," he said, crawling into bed next to her. "I bet you stole the show."

When he put it like that . . . "Well . . ." It hadn't been her plan, but in a very unintentional and very literal way, she kind of had.

"How'd it go?" he asked, getting under the blankets. "Everything go off without a hitch?"

Not at the beginning. And _not_ at the end. "More or less."

"Did you have a good time?"

She wasn't sure if the nerves had ever left her body enough for her to truly enjoy herself, but she knew what scene she'd ended up enjoying the most. "It was . . . interesting."

"Interesting, huh?" He reached over and touched her cheek. "Well, I can't wait to see it tomorrow night."

 _Tomorrow night,_ she thought. _Right._ There were two more nights of this goddamn production, and unless Gina miraculously returned, she'd have to get up there and play Alyssa all over again. "So you're for sure coming then?"

"Yeah. Told Cage I couldn't stay late no matter what."

 _Oh god._ If she'd still been playing Caroline, that would have been fine. But if Finn showed up, then he'd see her kiss Bellamy. And even though she could assure him it was only acting and that it was all in the script . . . it just felt awkward thinking of her boyfriend in the audience while she and Bellamy portrayed a young couple in love with each other. "You know, you don't have to come," she told him. "It's really not your type of play. It's just this romantic drama thing."

"If you're in it, I'll like it," he declared confidently.

Would he, though? Would he _like_ seeing her leap into Bellamy's arms and plant one on him? She doubted it. Although, this was the same guy who had no problem with her taking a job as a stripper, so . . . maybe he wouldn't actually care.

...

Having only managed a couple hours of sleep, Clarke was really dragging the next morning. She didn't even bother to wash her hair, just put it up in a messy ponytail with loose strands falling out everywhere, tossed on the first jeans and t-shirt she grabbed, and headed out for the day. Of all the possible people to text her that morning, Cage had, said he needed to see her. _Lovely._ She couldn't wait for that.

When she stepped out into the hall, there was Bellamy doing the same. Almost as if he'd planned it. Unlike her, he was bundled up to go running. "Hey," he said.

"Hey." She found it difficult to even look at him, so her eyes flittered all over the place.

"So I take it we're not running today," he said, surveying her outfit.

"No. Not today." She felt kind of bad, but . . . she couldn't just go hang out with him right now like nothing had happened.

"Look, Clarke . . ." He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slumping. "It feels like you're avoiding me."

"I'm not," she insisted. But really . . . yeah, she totally was.. "I just . . . I don't know what to say."

He said it for her, just blurted it out: "We kissed."

"On stage."

"Exactly."

"Yeah, but then you . . ." It still would have been a little weird if they'd only kissed once, as the script dictated, but not as weird as this. "Why did you kiss me again?"

He shrugged. "Because I felt like it."

She stared at him in disbelief. What the hell kind of answer was that? She'd expected him to say something about the play, about making it a fitting epilogue or leaving it on an image that stuck with the audience after they'd left the theater or . . . just something less nonchalant than this. But since he hadn't, she felt the need to do it for him, to offer some sort of logical explanation. "Well, it was . . . good," she said. "It was a good kiss. I mean, it was a good way to end the play." She couldn't really explain it any more than that, and she was worried it would only get worse if she said anything more about it. So she shifted gears and added, "But I don't think we should do that again tonight. In fact . . ." She gulped, bracing herself for his disappointment when she suggested, "Maybe we shouldn't kiss at all."

He frowned.

"Finn's gonna be there and-"

"The whole play leads up to it, though," he pointed out, a bit of an edge to his voice. "Without that, it's pointless."

"Well, then maybe Gina will come back tonight."

He grunted. "Doubt it."

She doubted it, too, but really, it would alleviate so much stress from her if she did. "Bellamy, I don't know if I can do this again," she admitted.

"You did fine," he assured her. "Great, actually."

"I messed up so many times."

"We covered it up."

"And I'm sure I didn't hit my marks most of the time."

"You were a natural," he insisted. "Don't be so hard on yourself." He reached out to stroke her hair, but she took a step back, feeling like they needed to put more distance in between them.

"What," he said, "I can't even touch you now?"

Oh god, she hated this. She hated hurting his feelings and acting distant, but they were getting too close. They'd _been_ getting too close for a really long time. "Look, Bellamy, I know that we were acting last night," she said, "but . . . that kiss . . ." She thought about it, getting lost in that phantom feeling of his mouth closing in on hers, and then whispered, "It didn't _feel_ like acting."

He stared at her long and hard, barely even blinking, and finally revealed, "It wasn't."

Her stomach tightened, and her heartbeat sped up. She wasn't sure whether she was terrified to hear that or elated. Either way, she was feeling _something_ and feeling it pretty strongly, so she couldn't stick around. "I have to go," she said, quickly scurrying away. He didn't come after her or even say anything to stop her, but it didn't matter. His voice echoed in her head with every step she took.

 _It wasn't acting,_ it said to her. _It wasn't._

...

Really, the last thing Clarke wanted to do with her day was go see Finn's jackass cousin. But she did, and she went early to get it out of the way. Maybe it had something to do with the most recent photo shoot she'd done. Although . . . why wouldn't he just talk to Anya about that? What would there have even been to talk about anyway?

"You wanted to see me?" she said, stepping into his office. An office that was _much_ larger than Finn's.

"Yes," he said, motioning to an empty chair. "Have a seat."

She wasn't planning on staying long, so she said, "I'd rather stand," and shut the door, although she left it slightly open rather than pushing it all the way closed.

"Suit yourself." He got up, walking around his desk towards her. "You know, Clarke," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "I have a friend who frequents Grounders—big fan of yours, for some reason."

She rolled her eyes at that little jab.

"His wife dragged him to the theater last night, and he told me he saw none other than the Girl Next Door up on stage. That wouldn't be you, would it?"

Was he trying to make small talk or something? Because this was weird. "Yeah, I did a play," she replied.

"Well, he said it was rubbish, of course, but you looked amazing." His eyes traveled up and down the length of her, and he mumbled, "To each his own, I guess."

"I don't see you doing any photo shoots," she retorted.

"He said it was a romance, that you had to kiss the male lead."

She made a face. "What's your point?"

Shrugging, he admitted, "No point, really. I was just wondering how Finn felt about that."

She tensed up a little bit but tried not to show it. Unfortunately, he noticed.

"Oh, you haven't told him," he said almost tauntingly. "I see."

"Why did you tell me to come here?" If he was just trying to make her feel bad for keeping a secret from Finn . . . she felt bad enough already.

"I wanted to discuss something with you," he announced, finally cutting to the chase. "Regarding Finn."

She arched her eyebrows, waiting expectantly, not sure what he could possibly want to talk about with her. Unless he planned to be having him work late more often than he already did.

"He'll be taking a minor pay cut now that I have Roger on board," Cage informed her.

"Oh, a _minor_ pay cut, huh?" She wasn't an idiot. She knew minor meant major.

"Yes. He already knows about it. But I wanted to tell you privately so as to avoid a . . . confrontation."

She snorted, glaring at him angrily. "You think just because we're in your office, I won't confront you about it?"

"I do. Actually, Clarke . . ." He leaned back against his desk, grinning smugly. "I'm thinking you'll just accept this, won't complain about it at all. Do you know why?"

She narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out where he was going with this. "Enlighten me."

That smirk of his only grew. "Because if you decide to fight me on this, I'll tell my cousin you lied to him."

About the play last night? About kissing Bellamy? She _really_ didn't want him to do that. Still, she quickly denied, "I didn't lie."

"But you didn't exactly tell him the truth, either, now did you?"

Momentarily, she looked down at the floor, feeling . . . guilty about that.

"You kissed another man last night, and he doesn't know about it," Cage recapped. "At the very least, it's a secret."

Flapping her arms against her sides, she declared, "I can just tell him."

"If you were willing to do that, you would've done it already."

She felt a nervous lump in the back of her throat, the kind she hated to acknowledge because doing that meant acknowledging that he was right. She _didn't_ want to tell Finn, at all, which was why she hadn't done so last night.

"It's a fair exchange, Clarke," Cage said. "You leave me alone, I leave you alone. Deal?"

This was ridiculous, she knew, letting him have any leverage over her. But she'd already lied to Finn about Bellamy on a couple occasions this year. She didn't want to make a habit out of it—or rather, she didn't want to clue him in to the fact that the habit existed. "Finn and I struggle to make ends meet as it is," she said, hoping to evoke some sort of sympathy from this cruel, self-absorbed man. "And now you're telling me he's gonna make even less? What are we supposed to do?"

Unfeelingly, Cage shrugged and said, "I guess you'll just have to keep stripping."

Oh, of course he'd bring it back to that, wouldn't he? That was all he saw when he looked at her: a stripper. He didn't think she was smart or capable of much of anything. He thought he could say anything to her and just get away with it, and why wouldn't he? So far, he had.

Swallowing her pride, she turned and left, letting him get away with this one, too. This was another bad habit she was developing, letting men manipulate her. And she didn't like it. In fact . . . it scared her.

...

"'Though it may have been uneventful and forgettable in different performers' hands, _Innocence_ proves itself to be an impactful romantic drama, one that resonates with audience members long after they've left the theater,'" Miller read off his phone. "'Crackling with chemistry, the two leads, Bellamy Blake and Gina Martin, anchor a love story decorated with subtlety and realism. In the hands of these two capable young performers, the relationship between the characters feels genuine, relatable, and somehow, sweepingly epic all at the same time.'"

Bellamy snorted. Yeah, 'cause it'd really been him and _Gina_ up there.

"'Blake in particular proves himself to be a powerhouse performer,'" Miller went on, "'the kind of actor whose magnetism draws audience members in to the point where they can't look away.'" He set his phone down and declared, "Well. I'd say that's a positive review, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, they've been pretty good so far," Bellamy agreed, motioning the waitress over so he could get a refill on his coffee.

"I know you and Gina didn't end up having that spark in real life, but it sounds like you faked it up on stage," Miller said.

"Yeah . . ." Bellamy waited until his cup was full and the waitress had left again to confess, "It wasn't Gina. It was Clarke."

Miller's eyebrows shot up. "What now?"

"Gina bailed," he explained. "Clarke had to step in to play the part."

"So you . . ." Miller cocked his head to the side curiously. "Wait, _she's_ the female lead?"

"Yeah." He wondered if she'd seen any of the reviews posted on the theater blogs online. She probably didn't know which ones to look for. He'd have to show her sometime, show her that she didn't need to take her clothes off to hold an audience's attention.

If she ever talked to him again.

"And that means . . ." Miller trailed off.

"I kissed her," he filled, knowing that was what his friend was getting at. "Yeah."

With a grin, Miller praised, "Alright, about time."

"No, that's not how I wanted our first kiss to go." He really hadn't thought about that when he'd suggested Clarke for the part. He'd just been in desperation mode, trying to think of a solution so that the show could still go on.

"Was it . . . bad?" Miller asked warily.

"Oh, no, it was great. Just . . . now I think she's confused." He'd try to give her some space about it, for a couple days, at least. Except . . . for the next two nights, they had to perform that play again. So there was only so much space he could give her while she sorted stuff out.

"But you wanna do it again, right?" Miller suspected. "You wanna do more than that?"

He sighed heavily, wishing it was as easy as _just_ wanting to have sex with her, but he was in way deeper than that now. "I wanna date the girl, Miller," he admitted. Then, lowering his voice, he mumbled, "I'm in love with her."

His friend laughed. "Wow, I have never heard you say those words before."

"That's 'cause I've never said 'em." He didn't have anything to compare to, but . . . he just knew. This stubborn, talented, utterly _infuriating_ girl next door . . . he loved her. A lot. "I don't know how it happened, but . . . I can't stop thinking about her," he admitted, wondering if the bags under his eyes made it obvious he'd stayed up thinking about her all last night.

"You tell her?" Miller asked.

"No. What am I supposed to do? She has a boyfriend."

"Then tell her to dump him."

"I wish she would."

"Maybe she will." Miller sounded optimistic about the whole thing, which contrasted with Bellamy's concerted efforts not to get his hopes up. "You guys are doin' the play again tonight, right?"

He nodded, not sure how that was going to go. She might even be more nervous this time; they just needed to make it through.

"Better make that kiss a good one," Miller suggested, wriggling his eyebrows.

Bellamy laughed a little, confident in his ability to do so. Maybe he'd just do the one kiss this time. Or maybe he'd go ahead and give her that second one. Whatever he felt was best in that moment, that was what he was gonna do.

...

Bellamy got to the theater right on time—well, technically he was fifteen minutes early, but there was just this unspoken rule in the theater world where you always showed up fifteen minutes early. It was a lot less hectic than it'd been last night, with everyone having gotten the first performance jitters out of the way. Nobody was running around like a chicken with its head cut off anymore; everything was just a lot more under control.

When Bellamy walked into his dressing room, the light was already on. And somebody was already in there.

"Gina," he said, surprised to see her at all, let alone in his room. "What're you doing here?"

She stood up from the couch, barely able to look at him. "Shamefully showing my face."

He shut the door, not really sure what this was about. He'd pretty much assumed that he'd never see Gina again, unless they ended up in some other play together.

"I'm so sorry for bailing last night, Bellamy," she apologized. "I know everyone must hate me so much right now."

As disappointed as he'd been with her decision last night, he felt bad for her right now. She looked like she'd done her fair share of crying about it, and she sounded genuinely sorry. "I don't hate you," he assured her. "I don't know why you would do that, but . . . I don't hate you."

"The nerves just got the best of me," she explained. "I had an anxiety attack; I had to get out of here." She sniffed back tears, shaking her head. "I mean, I just feel like you're so good at this, and I'm just struggling to keep up. And Shumway obviously hasn't been happy with me. He probably wishes he cast someone else." She inhaled shakily. "But I pulled myself together, and now I'm here."

 _Better late than never,_ he thought, but obviously Gina felt pretty crappy about what she'd done, so he wasn't about to say it.

"I heard you guys still performed it last night," she said. "Who played my part?"

Ooh, he wasn't about to say that, either.

Of course, she guessed it anyway. "Clarke?"

Slowly, mutely, he nodded his head.

"That's probably who Shumway wishes he cast," she said. "You probably loved having her play the part, too. I'm sure you don't even want me back."

"No, Gina, it's not that."

"It is," she said, "but . . . that's okay. I'm gonna go talk to Shumway, see if he'll give me another shot tonight. I know it's not likely, but I gotta try."

 _Tonight?_ He nodded wordlessly again, wrapping his mind about it. Could he really even get up there and do this play with Gina now that he'd already done it once with Clarke? Would he actually manage to be in the moment with her, or would he compare every little thing she said and did to the way Clarke said and did it? That wasn't fair to her, wasn't fair to the audience, either. So as harsh as it seemed . . . he really hoped Shumway turned her down.

...

"What about a hug, Bellamy? That's romantic, too, right?" Clarke conversed with herself as she got out of the car and headed into the theater. Lowering her voice, she mimicked what she anticipated his response to be: "'No, Clarke, it's gotta be a kiss. That's what Shumway wrote.'" She laughed angrily, muttering, "Well, Shumway can suck my metaphorical dick, because if I'm doing this again, then we can't . . ." She trailed off when she caught sight of _Gina_ of all people up near the stage, talking to Shumway. No, not just talking. _Pleading._

"Please. I'm so sorry," she apologized profusely. "I feel so guilty, believe me. But I've worked so hard at this. I'm begging you . . ."

"Ah, Clarke. I see you're here early." Shumway motioned her towards him, smiling. "Plenty of time to get your hair and makeup done, get you ready to perform tonight. Again." He gave his former leading lady a pointed look, and she lowered her head in shame. "You know, Gina, Clarke really did an amazing job last night," he bragged. "All those scenes that we labored away on with you . . . she just made them seem easy. She and Bellamy brought my vision to life. Not you and Bellamy. Because you weren't here."

 _Oh, give her a break,_ Clarke thought, her heart going out to the girl. So she'd messed up. Shumway wasn't so perfect himself.

"So you don't want me in the play anymore," Gina concluded tearfully.

"No." He actually smirked as he said it.

"I understand," she said quietly.

Even though ditching them at last minute had been a pretty crappy thing to do, Clarke couldn't help but feel so bad for her. She'd been berated and criticized on a near daily basis by this director, and she already had a bit of an inferiority complex as it was. The last thing she probably needed in her life was the knowledge that, once again, Clarke had gotten something and she didn't. "Actually . . . actually, it's a good thing Gina's here," Clarke said, sensing a perfect solution, something that would benefit both of them, "because . . . I don't think I'm gonna be able to perform tonight. Or tomorrow night."

"What?" Shumway gasped, holding his hand to his chest.

"It's just too stressful," she said vaguely, not about to admit that kissing Bellamy was the stressful part. Having made it through once, she knew now that she could handle all the lines and costume changes and even handle the nerves. But she couldn't handle kissing him again. This time, if she kissed him . . . she might not be able to stop.

"You can't be serious," Shumway grumbled. "Bellamy!"

 _No,_ Clarke thought, _don't tell him_. But it was too late. Bellamy must have been loitering backstage, because he came out from behind the curtain, a look of concern on his face.

"Did you know anything about this?" Shumway demanded.

"What?"

"Clarke's backing out of the play."

His head shot toward her, a look of near-accusation in his eyes. "No, I didn't."

 _I'm sorry, Bellamy,_ she thought, feeling like she was letting him down. She'd read the reviews; she knew what everyone was saying about their chemistry and how it elevated the play. But Gina needed this more than she did, and Clarke needed to _avoid_ it more than anything. "It was fun for a night, but . . . who are we kidding? This isn't my calling," she said. "Gina should play the part. She's the one who's spent months rehearsing it. She's put in the work, not me."

"Clarke." Shumway stepped in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders, looking like he wanted to shake her. "You brought an energy to this play last night. It was so authentic. I loved it; the audience loved it. And you and Bellamy . . . you're magic together."

She glanced at Bellamy over the director's shoulder, feeling like she was solely responsible for that hurt look on his face. "I'm sorry," she said, more to him than to the director. "I just don't want to."

Shumway sighed dramatically, pacing away a bit, raking his hand through his drastically-thinning hair. "And Caroline? You won't even go back to that part?"

Doing that would mean robbing another young, aspiring actress of a role she'd portrayed well last night. She didn't want to hurt someone else, either. "No," she decided. "Cassie did well. And she loves this. She should do it again."

Ironically, having just heard Gina's pleas for a second chance, Shumway was now the one who sounded like he was pleading when he asked, "Isn't there anything I can say to change your mind?"

She shook her head stubbornly. "No. My mind's made up."

"This is fucking ridiculous," Shumway muttered. "Alright, then. Gina, go get ready."

Gina smiled sadly, mouthing a silent _thank you_ to Clarke as she brushed past Bellamy and headed backstage. Clarke turned to leave, too, feeling like it was best to just get out of there and let Bellamy concentrate before taking the stage again. Because he still had a big part to play. And now, he had a different girl to kiss tonight.

Unfortunately, she hadn't yet made it back to her car when Bellamy followed her out of the theater and yelled, "Hey! What was that all about?"

Slowly, she turned around, exhaling heavily. "Look, it has nothing to do with . . . us," she lied.

"Oh, nothing?" he echoed suspiciously.

"I just don't wanna take opportunities away from other people."

He walked forward, eyes narrowing heatedly. "It's an opportunity for _you_ , Clarke."

"I don't wanna be an actress."

"You can't honestly stand here and tell me you didn't enjoy it. Wasn't it nice, for once, to hear people cheer for you without having to take your clothes off?"

Something about the way he said that . . . it didn't sit well with her. What was he insinuating there, that stripping was _all_ she ever did? "No, you know what? Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't use my job against me. You're not gonna get me to change my mind."

"Clarke, the play's better with you in it," he stated simply. "We all know that. Even Gina."

"But Gina deserves this."

He made a face. "Gina left us high and dry last night."

"She made a mistake." Lowering her head, she mumbled, "We've all made mistakes." She'd made too many to count lately, and surrendering herself _fully_ to that kiss with Bellamy last night . . . that had been a big one.

He shook his head in disappointment, sounding so upset when he grumbled, "Fine. Do whatever you want, Clarke. I don't care." He turned his back on her and stormed back inside, but she felt his frustration lingering even after he was gone.

...

Clarke didn't intend to go see the play that night. Why would she? She already knew how it ended, and she didn't want Bellamy to get distracted if he looked out into the crowd and saw her there. But Finn insisted they go anyway, to support their friend. Not just _her_ friend. _Their_ friend.

 _You're not his friend,_ she felt like saying, because she knew Bellamy was not a Finn fan. But she sucked it up and went with him anyway, knowing he'd hate every second of it.

They sat towards the back, where she doubted Bellamy would notice her, and from the second the first scene began, she could tell it was going to be a much different play than it had been last night. Gina just didn't . . . she didn't _emote_ like she needed to. Bellamy's whole face was a picture of emotion, both up on stage and in real life. He had these talkative eyes that could say everything his character was feeling. But Gina just didn't have that same ability. Even though she didn't mess up any of her lines and there was no need to adlib anything, there just . . . there wasn't a spark. And apparently she wasn't the only one thinking that, because she noticed a few people around her yawning.

Finn fell asleep halfway through, slumped over in his chair, mouth hanging open, snoring lightly. She had to whack his arm a few times to get him to be quiet.

At the end of the play, they did the kiss scene, exactly as they'd rehearsed it. And it just _looked_ rehearsed. Gina did the whole run-and-jump thing, but she hesitated when it came to kissing him, so it looked a little awkward. They tried to cover it up, of course, and for the most part, they succeeded. Most people still clapped, and as he set her down on her own two feet and they stared into each other's eyes as the curtain began to close, people kept clapping. But there was no standing ovation this time, and no one seemed to be leaving the theater raving about their chemistry.

Because there was none. Clarke felt like a bitch for even thinking it, but . . . it was true. And selfishly, she was sort of glad the audience hadn't had the same reaction tonight. She liked knowing that her chemistry with Bellamy was just _that_ good, that it could make for an entirely different performance.

On the third and final night of the show, Clarke went back again, just to support, as Finn had put it. She watched proudly as Cassie totally _owned_ the role of Caroline, and longingly as Bellamy grazed his hands up and down Gina's back during the slow dance scene. But she had to get up and leave before the big kiss scene this time. She just couldn't watch it again, Bellamy kissing another girl. Even though she knew it was acting. Even though she'd acted out the same part two nights ago. She didn't want to see it, knowing it could have been her.

When she got home and Finn wasn't there, she crawled into bed, took her pants off, and started touching herself. Pumping her fingers in and out of herself, she tried not to think about anything—or any _one_ —specific and just think about the physical feelings instead. She rubbed her clit with her thumb, feeling like she _needed_ to get off. She was so sexually frustrated, and kissing Bellamy the other night . . . it just made it worse.

She was well on her way to an orgasm when Finn poked his head in the bedroom and said, "Whoa. Looks like I got home at the right time."

"Finn." She removed her hand and self-consciously pressed her thighs together, embarrassed to have been caught doing this even though she knew there was nothing wrong with it.

"Perfect chance for me to give you what you want," he said with a grin as knelt down near the foot of the bed and grabbed her legs. He tugged her downward on the mattress and spread her legs so that her pussy was spread at the edge of the bed for him. He started eating her out with little finesse, but . . . hey, he was going down on her. This hardly ever happened. "You like that?" he asked huskily.

It definitely wasn't bad, but . . . he needed some coaching. "A little to the left," she told him. When he licked in the wrong direction, she clarified, "No, my left. And put your fingers in me when you do it."

He did everything she asked of him, seeming to take no offense that she was giving him pointers. They were _actually_ communicating, and that was good, but . . .

She was still thinking about Bellamy. And that was less good.

Even with two of Finn's fingers in her and his tongue flicking her clit, she still couldn't get Bellamy Blake out of her mind. God, what was wrong with her? Her boyfriend was _right here_ , giving her exactly what she'd asked for, and she couldn't even be in the moment with him?

She was pretty sure it was thinking about Bellamy that got her off that night. But of course she told Finn it was all him.

...

Being an actress for a night had been a nice change of pace, but now it was back to normal. Back to dancing. At Grounders. With no clothes on. Great.

Clarke tried to pump herself up back in the changing room, tried to walk through her routine in her head. It was only halfway choreographed. Once the clothes came off, she was winging it. A few spins here, some seductive hip shaking there . . . she'd entertain them. She always did.

"Hey, lover."

"Roan!" she gasped, spinning around, holding a black trench coat she planned to put on up to her naked chest. "You can't be back here."

"Oh, I think I can." He slithered towards her, a menacing look in those narrow eyes of his. "Don't even bother putting that on," he told her, taking the coat from her. He dropped it on the floor, and she stood before him in only her thong, feeling . . . very exposed and very uncomfortable. She tried to cover up her chest with her arms, but . . . it wasn't like that did much good.

"I heard through the Grounder grapevine that you were in a play the other night," he said. "With Bellamy."

Just hearing him say Bellamy's name made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "I filled in for another actress," she said, trying to explain it in a way that wouldn't upset him or make him want to retaliate. "It was a one-time thing."

"Still . . . I heard you kissed him."

 _Oh, crap._ She didn't know who had told him—maybe that same pervy husband who had told Cage—but it didn't really matter. He knew, and denying it would only make her look all the more sketchy. "It was in the script," she informed him. Not a lie.

"I'm not good at sharing, Clarke," he told her. "It's bad enough I have to share you with your boyfriend. I really don't wanna share you with Bellamy, too."

She wrinkled her face in disgust, so put off by how that sounded. "I'm not some possession."

"Maybe not," he agreed, pressing in closer to her. "But right now . . . you _are_ mine."

 _Too close,_ her mind screamed. _Too close._ Up until this point, Roan had always made it seem like he was seeking her permission, so she decided not to give it to him. "I don't wanna sleep with you," she stated decisively.

"Fine," he muttered. "But you _do_ need to do something to make this up to me." He closed the space between them entirely, reached around, and grabbed the naked flesh of her ass, squeezing as he pulled her groin into his.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry, trying to be somewhere else. But all she could feel was his denim-clad erection brushing against her. That and fear.

"Please, don't," she whispered.

"Isn't it worth it?" With his free hand, he squeezed one of her breasts roughly, digging his fingers into her sensitive skin. "Give me a little something, keep your boy safe."

This was more than a _little_ something she was giving him, more than the kiss she'd so stupidly agreed to give him in his car back when all of this had first started. This was an absolute violation, and she hated it. She hated every second of it. "You're pathetic," she ground out, summoning what little strength she had left in that moment to let him know how she _really_ felt about all of this. "The only way you can get me is to make threats. Because otherwise, you wouldn't stand a chance with me, and we both know it."

"Hmm, mouthy tonight," he snarled. "Maybe you should put that mouth to good use." Removing his hand from her breast, he reached down to fiddle with his pants.

"No," she whimpered, not willing to go that far. She'd resist, try to fight him off if she had to, scream for help.

"Sorry," a voice interrupted suddenly.

Roan quickly backed away from her, zipping his pants back up.

"Sorry," Roma repeated, "I . . ." She glanced back and forth between the two of them confusedly, seeming surprised by what she'd just walked in on.

"Don't apologize," Roan told her. "I was just wishing Clarke good luck tonight." He actually had the audacity to smile at her, then eased past Roma and added, "You, too, of course."

Roma didn't respond to him, and she made sure to shut the door once he was out of there. "However much he's paying you, it's not worth it," she said.

"No, he's not . . ." Clarke really couldn't afford to get into all the specifics right before she took the stage, nor did she really want anyone to know about it. So she bent down, retrieved her black coat, and put it on, hastily tying it around her waist. "Listen, can you just . . . can you just not tell anyone about that?" she implored. "Not Harper, not Anya, _definitely_ not Bellamy. I don't know what he would do if he found out."

Roma looked torn, but Clarke knew she'd be able to empathize. And indeed, she did when she sighed and said, "I won't say anything."

 _Thank God,_ Clarke thought, relieved. Harper would freak out if she knew, Anya would be worried, and Bellamy . . . Bellamy would probably do something crazy, something that would end up getting himself hurt even worse than he'd been hurt before.

"But Clarke?" Roma said softly as she sat down at the makeup table. "Whatever you're doing with him . . . it's dangerous. If you're not careful, you're gonna end up just like Ontari."

Clarke felt her entire body tense up at the thought. The new Number One following in the old Number One's footsteps? It was what everyone had warned her about all along. And even though she felt like there was still a different path in front of her, one that wouldn't end up the same . . . she was starting to understand how Ontari had gotten where she did. And that was terrifying.


	32. Chapter 32

_Chapter 32_

Clarke had earbuds in and wasn't able to hear much of anything as she ran—not her footsteps pounding the pavement, not her labored breathing. But somehow, she _did_ hear Bellamy come up behind her. Or . . . maybe she felt it.

"So this is what we do now," he said, his words slowing her to a stop, "we just run alone?"

She took out her earbuds, and turned around, sighing heavily. "No. Maybe." She didn't have an answer for him, but all she knew for sure was that they needed a little space from each other right now. They'd been getting too close for comfort for a while now. Just . . . too close.

"I've hardly seen you for the past three days," he said, a hint of accusation in his voice. "It feels like you're avoiding me."

"Well, maybe I am," she admitted bluntly.

"Why, because we kissed?"

"No—yes—I don't _know_ , Bellamy!" she stuttered, immediately feeling worked up and put on the spot.

"No, you do know. You just won't tell me."

She threw her arms up in the air, exasperated. "Fine, I'm avoiding you because we kissed," she acknowledged. "Not once, but twice. Once when it was scripted, once when it wasn't. And you said it wasn't acting, which, yeah, I pretty much figured when I felt your tongue in my mouth."

"There was no tongue," he denied.

"There was the start of some tongue action, okay? And that kind of kissing is the kind of thing I'm supposed to do with my boyfriend, and that's not you, Bellamy!" Her voice seemed to be rising in hysteria every single time she said his name, and she hated it.

"It could be," he argued.

" _What?_ " Now she just had to be hearing things, because going off-script and kissing her had been one thing, and telling her it wasn't acting had been another, but . . . _this?_ Saying he could be her boyfriend? It just about knocked her over.

"Alright, I'm just gonna say it, because at this point, it's gotta be glaringly, _painfully_ obvious." He closed the gap between them a bit, his presence and closeness enticing rather than intimidating like it was with Roan. "I feel something for you, Clarke," he confessed. "And I think you feel something for me, too."

Her eyes kept drifting to his mouth, his lips, almost too preoccupied with staring to even hear what he'd said. But her mind still registered it. Feelings. Bellamy had _feelings._ For her.

 _Oh god._ "Bellamy, you're one of my closest friends," she told him.

"It's more than that," he persisted.

"Maybe . . ." She groaned in frustration, feeling like there was no good thing to say here. Either she agreed with him, thus betraying Finn, or she lied to him and pretended there was nothing going on. "Maybe it _is_ more," she admitted, but before that hopefulness in his eyes could get much brighter, she added, "But it _can't_ be more. We can't act on it."

"We already did," he pointed out.

"No, _you_ did," she growled. "You just came at me with your lips and . . . what was I supposed to do, just _not_ kiss you back?" She wasn't about to try to rationalize it and point out that the whole play would have fallen flat if she'd pushed him away, because . . . it hadn't been a rational moment in her life. Kissing Bellamy . . . that was _all_ about the emotion. "I mean . . . I didn't _want_ this to happen."

"And what is this, exactly?"

"Us. You and me, this whole . . . chaotic thing." She whirled her hands around in the air as she struggled to find an appropriate description. "I moved here to get away from the drama, not to bask in it some more."

His jaw clenched, and he nodded angrily as he grumbled, "So that's it then, huh? I'm really that disposable to you?"

"No!" That wasn't what she was saying at all. "God, Bellamy, if you had any idea how much you mean to me . . ."

"No, if _you_ had any idea how much you mean to _me_ , Clarke . . ." He stared at her, shaking his head. "I mean, I've got guys beating me up and trashing my apartment and keying my car telling me to stay away from you. And yet here I am."

 _Trashing his apartment?_ she faintly registered. Somebody had done that, too?

"I just wanna . . . I just wanna be with you," he said, his voice quiet but somehow oh-so-loud on that city sidewalk. "What I feel for you . . ." He looked down at his feet for a moment, almost as if he were embarrassed to be saying any of this, but to his credit, he went ahead and said it anyway. "I don't think I've ever felt anything like it before."

 _Oh god, oh_ god, _Bellamy,_ she thought, feeling her heart clench with longing. Why was he saying all of this? He was making it so damn hard to resist. "I'm with Finn," she stated simply.

Eyes locked onto hers, he asked almost challengingly, "Why?"

For some reason, that one-word question caught her off guard. "Because he's—he's my boyfriend," she sputtered.

"That's not an answer."

It really wasn't, was it? There had to be a better one. "I've been with him for two and a half years," she reminded him. "We came here together."

"Those aren't reasons to stay with someone."

"Are you kidding?" she spat, so fucking _angry_ at him for making her think about all of this right now. "Are you kidding me right now? Are you really standing here telling me-"

"Leave him, yeah," Bellamy cut in, moving in so close, he could have leaned in and kissed her again. "Be with me."

 _With you?_ Her mind whirled as she imagined what that would even be like. She'd been with Finn so long by now that she could barely even contemplate dating anyone else, man or woman. But there were some things between her and Bellamy that already bordered on dating, hence the reason why everyone always seemed to assume he was her boyfriend. "I . . ." She couldn't choke out anything else. It was as if the words were stuck in the back of her throat.

"He doesn't even spend any time with you, Clarke," Bellamy pressed on, stroking her cheek tenderly with his thumb. "He doesn't worry about you the way I do. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've seen the guy make you laugh."

 _He does make me laugh, though,_ she thought. He'd just been so busy lately, so tired. But he used to make her laugh all the time.

"Just face it," Bellamy said. "He'd rather be working than-"

"No, you don't—you don't get to do this!" she interrupted vehemently, stepping backward, pointing a finger at him. "You don't get to act _so_ superior to him. Up until a couple months ago, you were banging random bar sluts and sleeping with women twice your age just to try to get a job." She wasn't trying to throw that stuff back in his face or anything, but . . . she felt the need to defend her boyfriend. "You can't act all high and mighty and make Finn out to be some bad guy, because he's _not_ a bad guy. You don't even know him."

"I know you," he said confidently.

"Oh, and what do you know?" she challenged.

"You're not happy with him."

She inhaled sharply, unwilling to accept that. No, that wasn't . . . she was _happy._ She had a boyfriend who loved her, so why the hell wouldn't she be happy? Maybe he wasn't perfect, but nobody was.

"Clarke, I-"

"Bellamy, don't," she snapped, needing to stop him before he made an even bigger confession, the three-word kind.

"No, I just want you to hear this," he insisted.

"I'm hearing everything." It was all too much right now, too overwhelming. She felt like she had so much going on in her life, things that she couldn't control. Hell, her only body, her own heart . . . she couldn't even control what _it_ was feeling. Or wanting.

"I just don't wanna hold back anymore," he said, in full heart-pouring-out mode. "I'm tired of acting like you're just my friend, like I don't want anything more with you. And as for Finn . . ."

"I love him, Bellamy!" she yelled, loud enough that people walking by either started walking faster to get past or walking slower to eavesdrop. "God, I . . . I don't know what you want me to say." She flapped her arms against her sides helplessly, trying not to drown in the guilt she felt upon seeing that sad, desperate look on his face. "Yes, I have feelings for you, not so platonic feelings," she said. "But . . . I love him." She really didn't want to hurt him even more, but it felt like he wasn't going to let up. So quietly, she tacked on, "More than I like you." And since it hurt to just _say_ the words, she couldn't even imagine how painful it was to hear them.

He looked stunned and truly devastated for the first time that she could remember. And finally, he was silent.

 _Oh god, I'm so sorry,_ she thought, her bottom lip quivering. Bellamy had such a big heart, and right now, it seemed like it was breaking.

She feared _she_ might break if she tried to say even one more word, so she turned her back and took off down the sidewalk again, running at a faster pace now as tears streamed down her cheeks.

...

There was only one thing on Clarke's mind as she finished up her run—well, one thing _besides_ Bellamy. And that was Finn. She felt like she had to be around him right now, had to spend some time with him. Because if she didn't . . . well, then she'd just go running right back to Bellamy, wouldn't she? And they'd talk or argue some more, and with that came the risk of _not_ talking and doing _other_ things instead.

She didn't want to cheat on her boyfriend. She didn't want to be that type of girl.

"Hey," she said as she slipped into his office.

"Hey." He was sitting at his computer, looking at some photos, but he closed the monitor when she came and sat down on the edge of his desk, leading her to suspect that the pictures were a little risqué. "Pleasant surprise. You just finish your run?"

"Yeah." She knew she probably looked all sweaty and gross right now, but hopefully that wouldn't deter him from spending some time with her today. "I was thinking we could go get some lunch or something."

"Ooh . . ." He made a face. "I don't know, I'm kinda busy."

She looked around, not sure what his definition of busy was, but it didn't match hers. His phone was out, Youtube app open, and it wasn't like there were piles of papers on his desk or anything. In fact, his desk was relatively uncluttered. "Well, how about some dinner then?" she offered.

"I'd love to, but . . . I'm kinda swamped for the next couple nights," he said regretfully. "We're tryin' to roll out this new ad campaign. It's not ready yet."

"Oh." She tried to quell her disappointment, and her anxiety. "Yeah, I get that." If Finn wasn't home for dinner, then what if she did something bad, like go over to Bellamy's? He was just _right there,_ right next door, and it was so damn tempting.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "There's just a lot going on right now."

She sighed, hanging her head and mumbling, "You could say that again." In Finn had any clue as to everything that she'd been dealing with lately—feelings for Bellamy, this horrible thing with Roan—he would have understood why it was so important that they have lunch today or dinner tonight. It wasn't that they were even drifting away from each other anymore, because he really had tried to be more attentive lately. So maybe it was her. Maybe she was the problem. Maybe she was the one who couldn't stop drifting.

...

Bellamy was in a bad mood, and the last thing he wanted to do when he was in a bad mood was to show up to work early just to do inventory. Anya needed his and Murphy's help, though. Apparently the new Grounders Girls merchandise had come in, and really, he just didn't even give a rat's ass about that anymore. If Clarke wanted to market her body to make money, then she could do it. He didn't fucking care.

 _Dammit,_ he thought as he opened a box and revealed her new coasters. He still cared.

He'd just taken a few empty boxes out back to throw in the dumpster when Murphy came out with three small shot glasses in his hand and said, "Hey, man, look."

Bellamy frowned. What the hell? Clarke was wearing ass-less chaps on one, a barely-there bikini on another, and as if that wasn't enough, she'd actually posed topless for a photo. So now there were going to be topless Clarke Griffin shot glasses behind him when he worked every night.

"I bet these are gonna sell like hotcakes," Murphy predicted. "What does that even mean, you know? What's a hotcake? And why does it sell? I don't-"

Bellamy cut him off by seizing the glasses out of his hand and throwing them down the alley, shattering them on the pavement.

"Whoa," Murphy said, jumping a little as each one broke. "Okay. I'm sensing some quality rage here."

 _Sure are,_ Bellamy thought bitterly. Dammit, he was pissed. Clarke liked him? She _liked_ him? Yet she supposedly _loved_ Finn? Finn Collins? That idoit?

"Not sure what the shot glasses ever did to you," Murphy mumbled, "but . . ."

Storming back into the bar, Bellamy left his friend out there to figure it out. It wasn't the shot glasses that had upset him; it was the girl pictured on them.

An interesting sight awaited him as he returned to the bar. His sexy albeit annoying ex had meandered in, and when her eyes settled on him, she said, "Hey. Am I interrupting?"

Oh, Bree was always interrupting something. The first time he'd met her, she'd actually walked in on him hooking up with a chick in a public restroom. Not his classiest hour, but somehow he'd ended up taking her home that night instead.

"No," he said, happy to have a distraction. "Actually, it's, uh . . . it's perfect timing."

She grinned at him flirtatiously, biting her bottom lip, and he suspected tonight she'd be biting his.

...

After eating a horrible boxed meatloaf for dinner, Clarke did all the dishes that had piled up in their sink the past couple days and then decided to take the trash out. That had piled up, too; it was overflowing, actually, and was starting to stink.

Dragging the large bag behind her, she trudged out into the hallway, eager to get it dumped down the trash chute and then go get into bed. But the minute she stepped outside her door, she stopped, because . . . the hallway wasn't empty.

Bellamy was out there. With a girl. Not just any girl, either, but a familiar blonde girl, none other than Bree herself. The very same chick who had locked him out of his own apartment a couple months ago. He had her pressed back against the wall and was kissing her. They both stopped when they saw her, and she felt . . . totally awkward.

"Why don't you just go inside?" Bellamy suggested, handing Bree his keys.

"Kay," she said, twisting one into the lock. "I won't get started without you." She cast Clarke a quick but notable possessive glare, then smiled at Bellamy before slipping inside and shutting the door.

"Well," Clarke said, unable to contain her jealousy in that moment, "looks like I'm not the only one handling trash."

"Oh, no, you don't get to do that," he growled.

"Do what?"

"Blow me off one minute and be jealous the next."

That was bullshit as far as she was concerned. He wasn't the only one with feelings here. She had them, too, so if she felt jealous, then she had every right to feel that way. "Actually, I think blowing is her specialty," she snapped nastily, feeling more comfortable slinging insults than she did admitting how upset this whole thing was making her.

"So what if it is?" he shot back. "I can do whatever the hell I want with whoever the hell I want."

"And you want _her_?" She didn't believe that for a second.

"No, I want you," he blurted, every word dripping with unbridled passion. "But you made it perfectly clear that's not gonna happen."

She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings so much today, but . . . they couldn't just keep dancing around the issue. Someone had had to lay down a line that couldn't be crossed, and unfortunately, he hadn't been willing to do it. "So this is your instinctive reaction," she said, disappointed in him for reverting back to his old ways, "to hook up with a girl you barely even like?"

"What can I say?" he said, gliding past her as he opened the door to his apartment. "I guess I just like her more than I love you."

Her breath caught in her chest—literally got stuck there, and she felt like she couldn't breathe. Had he just said . . . did he even realize . . .

 _Love?_ Did he _love_ her?

She didn't get the chance to ask as he shut the door and loudly, exaggeratedly locking it into place. She slumped against the wall, strings of her about-to-burst trash bag still in hand, and felt some of the hurt that she'd dealt him today. That feeling of rejection, of being passed up in favor of someone else . . . she'd never actually experienced that before, but now she understood why people wrote songs about it. It was awful. In fact, she was pretty sure it was the worst she'd felt since her parents had told her they were splitting up.

She felt like this big, big city was closing in on her. And she was powerless to stop it.

...

Having gotten very little sleep, Clarke showed up unusually late to the club the next morning. In her defense, Anya had texted her at 1:00 last night asking if she could come in and help train some new girls this morning. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but . . . at least it was _something_ to do. Something to keep her mind off of . . . other things.

"On five, six, seven, eight," she heard Luna counting as she walked back to the studio room.

Clarke took a quick survey of the potential in there. It definitely . . . wasn't much. The two girls in the back looked completely lost, even with Harper demonstrating the moves right in front of them. And the girl off to the far side of the room . . .

Ugh, the girl off to the far side of the room.

"Hey, thanks for coming in," Anya said, intercepting her, "an hour late."

"Sorry," she apologized. "So Shantal didn't work out, huh?"

"No. We're gonna try to hire somebody else," Anya said, glancing over her shoulder at all the new potentials. "Luna and Harper are teaching them the technical side of things. I'd really like you to work with them on the performance aspect."

"Can do." Once again, she took a look at the total slut-bomb blonde whipping her hair all around like she was at an eighties metal concert, just to make sure she was seeing things straight. And yep, she was. "Uh, Anya?" she said. "You see that blonde girl off to the side who doesn't have enough arm strength to lift herself up onto the pole?"

"Uh-huh," Anya confirmed.

"Yeah, that's one of Bellamy's ex-girlfriends." Little Bree was just popping up _everywhere_ lately. Her apartment complex, her workplace, her man's hot body.

 _Oh god,_ she thought, cringing inwardly. Bellamy was _not_ her man, and she had to stop being such a jealous non-girlfriend about it.

"If you really wanna enforce your no fraternization policy, you won't hire her," Clarke advised. "They were together last night."

"Really?" Anya sounded surprised, and she gave Clarke a weird look. "Well, I wasn't planning on it. She's a lost cause. In fact, I'm gonna go dismiss her now before she hurts herself."

"Good idea," Clarke said, slinking away. She didn't need to be standing right there when Bree came out.

Since it was early and there was no one else there, she made her way behind the bar and found the same two bottles Bellamy had used to pour that one shot the other night. What was it even called again? Something nipple? Battery nipple?

 _Buttery_ nipple, she realized as she looked for a shot glass. She saw plenty of them with her own photos on it, and it was . . . well, alarming, to be honest. She hardly even recognized herself in those photos. She looked like a porn star.

"Well, you got your way," Bree grumbled as she stomped out of the studio. "Again."

Clarke whirled around, feeling sort of . . . bad. She didn't _like_ Bree, but maybe she'd really needed a job. Now she might end up someplace worse, like Polis.

"I'm not stripper material," Bree said, snorting.

 _That's not such a bad thing,_ Clarke wanted to say. But instead, she asked, "Did you and Bellamy hook up last night?"

Bree rolled her eyes. "No. We made out for ten minutes and then he told me to leave."

Even though she tried not to react, Clarke couldn't help but sigh in relief when she heard that. She'd specifically slept on the couch last night so as to _avoid_ hearing any hook-up sounds. But every once in a while, she'd gone back to her bedroom, pressed her ear up against the wall, and listened, just to see if it sounded like Bree was still there.

"You're the one he wants, Clarke, not me," the other girl said, sounding . . . defeated. Not heartbroken, exactly, but completely resigned. "Do you know how hard it is to find an actual good guy in this city? Now I'm not saying Bellamy's perfect, but . . . he _is_ good."

 _He is,_ Clarke thought. He'd done a lot for her.

"And he cares about you." Bree looked her up and down, and for once, she didn't look bitchy or . . . well, bitchy. She looked . . . envious. "Lucky you," she said softly before she turned and left.

 _Lucky?_ Clarke thought. She didn't _feel_ very lucky anymore. She had her own conflicting feelings, Roan's unwanted advances, and a strained relationship with her parents to deal with. And maybe Bree had all of those things, too. But Clarke knew . . . the girl was right. She did have something Bree didn't have, something that made all the difference: Bellamy Blake.

...

Another night, another dance. Clarke was in a bit of a daze as she went through the choreography, but she tried her hardest to keep an engaged, lively look in her eyes. Her efforts seemed to be working. Everyone was watching, and everyone looked pleased with what they were seeing. When she stripped down to nothing, they looked _really_ pleased. Money flittered towards the stage, some of it landing near her feet as she strutted around the pole.

She didn't look over at the bar once when she danced, but the whole time, she wondered if Bellamy was watching her. She wanted to see the look on his face, see if looked captivated or . . . god, even just turned on. It was ridiculous, she knew, and hypocritical to want to get that reaction out of him, but . . . she _wanted_ to arouse him.

When she was done dancing and the crowd was cheering, she did her usual thing and smiled and waved goodnight to them. But her smile wavered when she cast one quick look over to the bar and saw Bellamy with his back to the stage. It looked like he was on his phone, of all things. Like he was texting or searching something or literally just doing anything he could to not look over at her. She could understand why he didn't want to watch her perform right now, she supposed, but still . . . she wished he would have. He was the only guy in that crowd whose heated gaze actually meant anything to her at all.

Thankfully, she was able to leave with Vivian that night and get out of there before Roan could corner her. But when she got home, she walked into a dark apartment. No Finn. Again.

God, she really needed to be around him right now. Being alone felt . . . dangerous. Not because of anyone else, but because of herself. She was scared of what she might do.

She got into bed early and stayed there for hours, playing games she didn't even know she had installed on her phone. None of them really kept her attention for long or took her mind off of everything that was going on, so she texted Finn periodically to see when he'd been home. At first his response was _soon,_ but it shifted into _later_ and then finally a _not sure when_. She found herself growing restless and agitated, needing his company, needing him to be lying in that bed next to her so that she just . . . stayed in it.

But since he wasn't . . . she didn't. She got up, got dressed, grabbed her keys, and headed back out into the cold night. She drove the familiar route back to Grounders and parked out front well after most of the other cars were already gone. But Bellamy's was still there, and Murphy was exiting as she got out of her car.

"Hey, Murphy," she said, attempting to smile.

"Hey," he returned. As if he knew she was there for Bellamy, he said, "He's closing up," as he motioned back at the building.

She nodded, letting her fake smile fall once she'd stepped past him. Hesitantly, she went inside the now-empty strip club, where Bellamy was the only person left. He was finishing up with a few glasses at the bar, dunking them into the three sinks just like he'd shown her.

"We're closed," he grumbled without even looking at her.

"Even to me?" she asked softly.

He tensed up momentarily, eyes still locked on that three-bin sink. "Especially to you."

Sighing frustratedly, she walked towards the bar. "Come on, Bellamy, don't be like this."

"Like what?" he spat, throwing his arms up in the air. He whirled towards her, finally making eye contact, and he looked . . . really upset. Not just hurt anymore, but angry, too. "How am I supposed to be? You gave me the brush-off one second and got jealous of me sleeping with Bree the next."

"Except you didn't sleep with her," she said.

He fell silent for a moment, like he hadn't expected her to know that. "No, I didn't," he admitted.

"Why not?" She had a feeling she knew, but she wanted to hear it from him.

"Why?" he echoed loudly. "Because I'd rather be playing pointless video games with you, Clarke. I'd rather be thrift store shopping with you. Hell, I'd rather be dancing around to stupid Taylor Swift songs, as long as I'm with you." Grunting, he shook his head in dismay. "Pathetic, isn't it?"

"No, it's not . . ." There was nothing _pathetic_ about it. If anything, it was . . . sweet. Endearing. "You're not . . ." She hated hearing him so down on himself, because, like Bree of all people had said today, he _was_ a good guy. She'd never meant to make him feel bad.

As much as she would have loved to ease her way into the inevitable question, the one she just _had_ to ask because it'd been weighing on her for days now, she didn't see any other way to approach it than to just . . . than to just ask it. So she worked up the courage, took a deep breath, and did just that. "Bellamy, are you in love with me?"

It took him only a second to respond. "Yes."

 _Oh god,_ she thought, feeling all breathless again. _Oh my god._

"And I've never been in love before," he pointedly reminded her, "so it's a really big fucking deal."

He'd never . . . _never_ been in love? _Ever?_ She'd suspected as much, but to have confirmation of it, to know that, for the first time in his life, he was feeling that and feeling it towards _her_ of all people . . . it was just so overwhelming, so head-spinning. She felt like she couldn't even think straight.

"I want you," she blurted, feeling like a bad soap opera actress when she said the words. "God, it sounds so . . . I'm not trying to be dramatic," she insisted. "I just . . ." She peered at him closely, trying not to fixate on the way his biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt, or the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching whenever he shut his mouth. "I do want you," she said again. "And part of me does just wanna drop everything and . . . be with you." She felt tears sting her eyes as she imagined what it would be like to curl up on the couch or in a bed with Bellamy every night, to wake up in those same arms. To feel a kiss from him again, because the first one—no, _two_ —had been the most _staggering_ kisses of her life.

"And the other part of you?" he prompted, sounding almost fearful.

She blinked rapidly, trying unsuccessfully to hold back all those tears. "Bellamy, I'm sorry," she whispered apologetically. "I can't. I can't do that to Finn."

He lowered his head, looking . . . defeated. For the first time since she'd known him, Bellamy sort of looked like he'd . . . given up. "Because you're used to being with him," he mumbled.

"No," she denied, but even she had to admit, that _was_ part of it. "Yes, in a way," she reluctantly acknowledged. It wasn't that she felt obligated; it was just that . . . he'd been a part of her life, a big part, for a long time now. "Look, he's been through a lot with me, okay?" she tried to explain. "When my dad's whole scandal happened, he was there for me. When my parents split up, he was there. When we lost our money, he was there, and when everyone else was talking about me and my family and how screwed up we all were, he didn't leave my side. He's been there with me through all of that." She wiped her tears away with shaking hands, feeling like he'd never understand. "He's the first person I've ever . . ." God only knew who the first person Bellamy had ever slept with was, the first person he'd ever kissed. But they did both know the first person he'd ever loved. It was her. He loved _her_. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen with you and me," she whispered in a rush of breath. "I didn't mean for us to get so close."

"Well, we did," he said. "So what do we do now? Can't very well just go back to being friends."

"I don't know . . ." She cried some more, thinking about what it would be like to lose his friendship. The prospect of that sounded just as horrible as losing her relationship with Finn did. "I'm so sorry, Bellamy," she said, well aware that she was breaking his heart—and her own—by doing this.

"You know, I'm trying really hard to suck it up and say I'll support you no matter what," he grumbled.

She sighed, grateful for that. "Thank you."

"No, I said I'm _trying_ to do that," he corrected quickly. "It's not working."

Her bottom lip trembled as she stared into his eyes, seeing herself reflected in them. She looked like such a mess right now, felt like such a mess, and was acting like such a mess. She'd totally screwed things up here in New York City so far. Everything she'd envisioned about this place had been a lie, as had been the person she'd imagined she could be here.

"I'll just leave you alone," she decided, feeling like she owed it to him to at least give him a little time and space to process this. And if that time and space involved bringing home another girl tonight and plowing her right on the other side of that bedroom wall, then she had to be okay with it. She couldn't say this to him and then be all territorial and jealous anymore. He wasn't her boyfriend. And sadly, maybe now he didn't even want to be her friend anymore.

Bellamy was a truly sad sight to see as she left him standing there, all alone by himself in that empty club. She felt even more awful than she ever could have imagined. This whole thing—him, Finn, god even Roan . . . it was making her feel worse than she'd ever felt back in Arkadia. Because at least what had happened back there hadn't been her fault. But this . . . this was.

She got in her car, ready to drive off—not home, because it still wasn't good for her to be alone right now—but when she twisted her key in the ignition, the car chugged but did not start up. She tried again, and again, it cranked away but never came to life. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," she grumbled frustratedly. Tonight of all nights, this iconic car had decided to crap out on her?

There was no way she could walk to where she needed to go from here, nor did she even want to attempt it or any public transportation. She heard police sirens not very far away, and that wasn't exactly an inviting sound for a young girl at night in the city. She reached into her purse to take out her phone and call Finn, but she quickly realized she'd left her phone at home.

 _Well,_ she thought tersely, feeling like the universe was making fun of her. _This is just great._

It was like rubbing salt in the wound having to go back into that club and ask Bellamy for a favor after she'd just gotten done reluctantly choosing Finn over him.

"Forget something?" he asked unenthusiastically.

"No. But my car won't start," she told him. "I hate to even ask, but . . ." She trailed off, not able to actually ask it.

"You need a ride home?" he filled in.

"Actually, I was . . ." She supposed she could just have him take her home, but that seemed too risky. Him, her, together out in that hallway with his empty apartment on one side of them and hers on the other? No way. She couldn't chance it. "I was gonna go see Finn," she said.

"Oh, even better." He put the last of the glasses down in the drying rack, wiped off the counter one last time, and came out from behind the bar, plucking his keys out of his pocket. "Let's go."

She slinked after him lamely, wondering if she should even get in the _car_ with him right now. What if that was too tempting, too?

Bellamy didn't say much as they drove. Didn't look at her, either, even though, every once in a while, she'd look over at him. He kept his eyes focused on the road, his expression unreadable as he drove her to Finn's workplace.

"So are you gonna tell him?" he asked as they got closer.

"Who, Finn?"

"Yeah. About us." He rolled his eyes. "Whatever we were."

 _Were,_ she registered. Past tense. He probably didn't even want anything to do with her anymore. "No," she said, but if the little white lies she'd told him lately had made her feel bad, then something like this would surely do her in. "I don't know," she amended. She _really_ didn't want to make secret-keeping a habit. Secrets had ruined her parents' marriage, and she didn't want the same thing to happen to her and Finn. She didn't want to follow in their footsteps.

When they got there, most of the lights in the three story building were off, save for a few up on the third floor, where Cage himself worked, and on the second floor, where Finn's office was.

"God, I hate this place," she complained as she got out of the car. "Hopefully his creepy cousin isn't here."

Bellamy, too, got out. "Cousin's creepy, huh?"

"Kind of." There were definitely some similarities between him and Roan, but Roan's physical presence alone was much more . . . overpowering.

"Well, then I'll go with you," he decided.

"No, you don't have to-"

"Clarke." He gave her a stern look. "Please."

It wasn't that she was worried he'd tell Finn something. She just worried seeing him would make Bellamy feel even worse. But months ago, Bellamy Blake had vowed to look after her and make sure she made it in this crazy city. And even now, even after she'd outright rejected him, that was still what he was trying to do. She sensed he needed to feel like he was still doing something to take care of her, to keep her safe, even though she didn't plan on even crossing paths with Cage while she was there. So she didn't put up an argument and instead let him accompany her into the building. Since it was late, she had to wait for someone to buzz her in, and he waited there with her. Not too close, though. Plenty of space in between them.

As they climbed the stairs to the second floor, she said to herself, "I should tell him, shouldn't I? Because I don't wanna lie. My dad lied to my mom. I don't wanna do that."

"Do whatever you want," Bellamy grumbled. "Just make sure he doesn't come swingin' at me. I got enough people doin' that."

She winced, hoping that at least one good thing would come out of this. Maybe Roan would finally back off for good now. Once he realized she'd turned Bellamy down, maybe he'd leave him alone.

"God, I can't believe he's still here," she said as they strode towards Finn's office. A new ad campaign took time, sure, but how much time did it take to choose some photos and develop a layout for a magazine?

Approaching his closed door, she heard . . . laughter. Finn's laughter, but mixed in with someone else's. A girl's.

Raven's.

 _It's okay,_ she thought, slowly reaching for the doorknob. He and Raven worked together all the time. He'd been completely upfront with her about that. And Raven was cool. Raven was . . .

Raven was _there_ , she realized in horror as she opened the door just a crack to peer inside. Not only was she in that office, but she was . . . sitting on Finn's lap. In his chair with him. Hands all over him, his hands all over her. Whatever clothes they still had on were dangling off, and they were kissing and saying muffled things to each other against their lips.

"I should've known you'd be a boss, even when it comes to sex," she heard Finn say.

That made Raven laugh. "Mmm, you like it."

"I love it. I love it so much."

Clarke stared at them in horror, careful not to open the door so far that she'd draw attention to herself. She opened it wide enough to see everything—the photos strewn onto the floor, like they'd hastily cleared off his desk to make room for . . . this. The unopened condom on his desk, as if they still intended to do it again. His desk was blocking their lower bodies, so she couldn't see if they were still . . . if they were still . . .

But they probably were still. Because he'd just had _sex_ with her.

Over her shoulder, Bellamy whispered, "Holy shit," as he got a glimpse of what was going on, too. Finn and Raven were both too wrapped up in their own little world of tonsil hockey to hear them or feel them watching or be aware of them in any way at all. They were just so busy . . . _working._ Working _late_. Always working so damn fucking late, probably always doing this while she lay alone at home, waiting for him, texting him incessantly about when he was leaving.

She felt like she was gonna be sick.

Quietly closing the door, she turned and took off the way she'd came, trundling down the stairs and out the door. She practically spilled out onto the sidewalk, clutching her heaving stomach with one hand, hunching over and sobbing as she struggled to even breathe.

Had that really just happened?

"Clarke!" Bellamy yelled as he raced out after her. He still didn't come too close, but he did come to stand behind her, and he put his hand on her shoulder this time.

Standing up straighter, she shoved all her tears aside, allowing anger to take their place. He was fucking _cheating_ on her. The very boyfriend she'd just defended and vowed to stay with even though her feelings for Bellamy were undeniable . . . he was having a god-damn affair. That bastard was doing to her what her dad had done to her mom. It didn't matter that he was with a woman instead of a man. Betrayal was betrayal and . . . he was _betraying_ her.

"Get me out of here," she told Bellamy, needing to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Actually, come to think of it . . . she knew where she needed to be.


	33. Chapter 33

_Chapter 33_

 _That son of a bitch,_ Bellamy kept thinking as he drove Clarke away from the advertising agency. _That_ fucking _son of a bitch._ He'd always known, of course, that Clarke was too good for Finn, that he didn't deserve her. And he'd figured the guy was attracted to Raven, because . . . well, even though she thought she knew everything about everything, that girl was hot, and it always seemed like she and Finn were around each other. But to cheat on Clarke . . . to actually cross that line and _cheat_ on her . . .

 _Son of a bitch._

He'd assumed Clarke would want him to drive her home, but when he took one turn in that direction, she whimpered, "No," and motioned for him to drive back the other way. He wasn't sure if she just wanted him to keep driving around or what, but finally she mumbled that she wanted to go back to the club. Something about letting off some steam.

When they got there and let themselves inside, she made a beeline for the bar, and he realized what a mistake it might have been to bring her here. She looked like she was in the mood to drown her sorrows or something, and he couldn't say he blamed her.

"Hey, are you sure you don't wanna just go home?" he asked, wanting to see if he could get her to change her mind.

"Nope. Home's the last place I wanna be." She grabbed a bottle off the shelf, popping the top off, and then whirled to face him, venting, "And don't sit there and lecture me about what I can and can't have. If there's any time in my life I've deserved a drink . . ." She trailed off vehemently and tilted her head back, chugging straight from the bottle. Making a face, she asked, "What is this?" She spun the bottle around, struggling to read it in the dimly-lit room, so she just declared, "Not strong enough," she set it down on the counter. When she grabbed another bottle, it was one he just couldn't let her have.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, that's Bacardi 151," he cautioned, taking it from her. "You'll knock yourself out."

"Well, maybe that's what I want right now." She tried to grab it back from him, but he held it out of her reach and shook his head. No way. This was way too strong for her.

Throwing her arms up at her sides, she lamented, "He cheated on me, Bellamy. Finn . . . cheated on me." Her eyes glazed over with sadness as she whispered, "Like my dad cheated on my mom."

He knew this had to be hitting her hard on so many different levels right now, and that was one of them. That shit that had gone down with her parents had really screwed Clarke up, and to feel like it was repeating now with her and Finn this time . . . he felt bad for her. He really did.

"He lied to me, went behind my back." She grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured herself a shot. "How could he do that to me?" Swirling the liquid around in the glass, she brought it up to her lips and knocked it back like a pro. Then she poured herself another shot, but before drinking it, she slammed the glass down on the counter, nearly shattering it. "And god, here I am worried about just _kissing_ you, just having feelings for you. And where's he? Oh, he's right there, gettin' after it with Raven." She shook her head in dismay, a look of utter agony on her face. "God, I'm _such_ an idiot." She blinked back tears and tossed back another shot, then immediately went in search of something else. "He's with her all the time, just like I'm with you," she said as she rummaged around beneath the counter. "Except I didn't let it go any further with you because I—I wanted to respect him and be loyal to him." She grunted exasperatedly, turning back around to scan the shelves when she didn't find what she wanted. "But apparently I don't even mean shit to him, because he just . . ." She grabbed a bottle of tequila and uncorked it. "I mean, how could he _do_ that?"

He shook his head, not able to fathom how a guy who had Clarke as a girlfriend could want anyone but her. "I don't know."

She took a big drink straight from the bottle, and her eyes widened as if something horrible were occurring to her. "Oh god, what if it's been going on for months now? What if he's been having an affair?"

Bellamy wasn't about to stand there and assure her he wasn't. With Finn, anything was possible. And he and Raven had definitely been spending more time together than he and Clarke had been. It seemed possible.

"I feel like such a fool," she admitted, sounding embarrassed.

"You're not a fool." That much he _could_ assure her of. This could have happened to any girl.

"No, really, I am." When she took another drink, it was a smaller one this time. "I mean, how many times was he not even working when he said he was working late, huh? How many times did he lie to me just so he could be with her? And I just let him, Bellamy. I just let him lie to me and acted like it was okay. I just let him stay out all the time. I didn't even question it. Because I _trusted_ him. I _loved_ him." Narrowing her eyes, she shook her head in disbelief. "Why would I ever love somebody like that?"

As much as he wanted to rag on Finn right now, he wasn't about to stand there and pretend he knew everything about her relationship with him. But he suspected it used to be a lot better than it had been lately. "Because you knew him when he was different," he said.

"No, he was never great, though."

He shrugged. "Earlier tonight you said he was."

"Why are you defending him now?" she roared, shoving the bottle against his chest.

"I'm not," he said, taking it from her. "I'm just saying . . ."

"Well, I take back everything I said. You were right," she declared, hopping up onto the counter. "Finn's a loser. He's a liar and . . . a cheater." She lowered her head, looking as if she were fighting back tears when she mumbled, "And he never loved me."

Ooh, it was tempting to agree with that, because anyone who _truly_ loved Clarke would have never been able to cheat on her. But just thinking something like that was only going to make her feel worse. "Clarke . . ." he said, corking the tequila bottle again before putting it back on the shelf.

"No, he probably never did." She swung her legs over the counter and slid off the other side, swaying towards the stage, meandering exaggeratedly. He wasn't sure if she was already feeling the effects of the alcohol or was walking aimlessly. Probably the latter, though it'd be the former soon. "He was probably just like every other high school boy, wanted to get laid," she said as she stepped up onto the stage. "And then he just stuck with me for a while, but now he's bored or something. I couldn't hold his interest." She grabbed the pole and flung herself around it, circling slowly, not bothering with the flirtatious smile she usually plastered on for the patrons. "That's why he never put up a fight about me dancing here," she said. Throwing her head back, she leaned as far backward as she could, looking at him upside down while she held the pole with one hand. "He doesn't care. He doesn't care about me."

"I'm sure he does." As much as it pained him to say that, Finn clearly wasn't mad at Clarke or anything. He still cared about her, on some level, just . . . just not as much as he should have. That bastard didn't even realize how lucky he was.

"No, he—come _on_ , Bellamy, you saw what I saw!" she yelled, stomping down the steps of the stage. She marched back to the bar, fuming. "He's having _sex_ with someone else, probably right now. He doesn't _care_."

"Look, you're not doing yourself any favors by rewriting your whole history with this guy," he cautioned. "You loved him—maybe you still do . . ."

"I don't," she denied, pouting.

"You say that now." Feelings like that didn't just shut off in an instant. Now that he actually knew what love felt like, he was sure of that much.

"No, I _don't_ , Bellamy," she insisted, walking around the bar so she could join him on the other side again. "Why would I love somebody who does that to me? Who _betrays_ me? I gave him everything—I turned my back on my _whole life_ and came here with him! Because we thought everything would be better. But all this place ever did is tear us apart, and now he's with her and . . ." She trailed off, inhaling shakily before squeaking out, "I'm alone."

God, she sounded so sad. So desperate. He wasn't used to hearing Clarke sound that way. The girl was young, but she was determined and stubborn as hell. This girl right now . . . she was hurting. Worse than he'd ever seen her hurt before.

"No, you're not," he promised her. He wouldn't let her be alone.

"Yes, I am," she argued, looking away as the tears began to fall.

"Clarke." He put his hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake so she'd look him in the eye. "You still have me."

She didn't smile, probably couldn't right now, but at least that was enough to get a spark of life back in her eyes. "I still have you?"

God, did she ever. Despite the fact that she'd broken his heart tonight, he'd stay by her side all night if that was what she needed. He wasn't going anywhere. "No matter what," he reassured her.

She sniffed back tears, eyes fixating on his chest instead of his face now. "But what I said to you . . . I was just being loyal to him. You know that, right?"

 _Loyal?_ Well, she'd been loyal to a fault then, but he wasn't about to point that out since she had to already be thinking that.

"I don't _just_ like you," she said, slowly lifting her head so her eyes could gaze into his.

She didn't? What the hell did that mean, then? He knew what he _wanted_ it to mean, but . . . what if it didn't?

"Bellamy . . ."

 _No, don't do this,_ his mind screamed at him, but his body went along with it when she clutched his shirt with both hands, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed him. He kissed her back, reveling in the softness of her lips, the feel of her mouth on his. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about this since the play the other night, about kissing her again, and now, he was getting to do it. Right there behind the bar. It felt, for lack of a better word . . . intoxicating.

He could taste the alcohol and smell it on her breath as the kiss deepened and things started to heat up. His hand instinctively wound their way around her waist, pulling her in closer to him, and hers slid up to wrap around his neck. She was the one to make the first move with her tongue, brazenly swirling it around the tip of his, and he reciprocated by sucking wantonly on her bottom lip and letting the kiss delve into more passionate territory. God, this was so good. He wanted to just bend her over that counter and . . .

When he felt her hand on his zipper, trying to tug it down, he snapped himself out of his wildest fantasies and came back down to earth. They couldn't do this now, and they couldn't do this here.

"No, Clarke." He tore his mouth away, pushed her hand away, and took a step back, putting a little more distance between them.

"What?" she asked innocently.

It was _torturous_ not to just give in and let this happen, because he knew it'd feel good for both of them. Physically, at least. But sex wasn't just a physical thing. Maybe it was with girls like Bree, but it was different with Clarke. It had to be.

"Not like this," he told her, shaking his head.

She frowned. "What do you mean? We both want to." She tried to reach for his jeans again, but he took another step back and zipped up his fly.

"You just saw your boyfriend with another woman," he reminded her. "You're reeling."

"No, I'm not . . ." She shook her head adamantly, grunting as though he couldn't have been father off base. "You're not just some rebound guy, okay? You're . . . you're _you_. And I want you so much." She tried to throw herself at him again—literally—and he had to grab both her arms and hold her back.

" _Clarke._ " He knew she could be stubborn, but so could he. "No." She wasn't going to get him to change his mind about this. Even if she got up on that stage and did a private show just for him, he'd tell her the same thing. "I can't do this with you when you're . . ." He didn't want to upset her, but . . . she wasn't herself right now.

"What, when I'm drunk?" she filled in. "I'm not drunk yet."

"Yet would be the key word." If she had her way, she'd probably take a few of these bottles home with her.

She stared at him in disbelief, sounding offended and embarrassed when she asked, "So now _you_ don't even want me?"

"This isn't you," he argued. "You're not thinking clearly."

"Oh, so I'm just some stupid little girl who doesn't even think, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

"I don't use my brain; I just use my body." She scrunched the bottom of her shirt up in her hands, looking like she was about to take it off for a second, but then she let go of it and kept ranting. "Of course, _of course_ I'm not thinking clearly. I never think at all. I make dumb decisions."

"Clarke, come on." He wasn't saying any of that.

"No, you _come on_ , Bellamy," she growled. "God! Make up your mind."

"I have." He didn't care if it pissed her off even more. In the morning when she _didn't_ have the guilt of sleeping with him mixed in with the pain of Finn's betrayal, she'd thank him for turning her down. "Not here. Not tonight," he said. "Trust me, it's better this way."

Fresh tears sprung to her eyes, ones that hadn't formed as a result of Finn. Or maybe . . . maybe everything tonight was connected to this Finn fiasco in some way. That was why they had to wait.

Clarke seemed fed up with the idea of waiting, though, when she yelled, "No, you know what? I don't even care. Just—just get away from me!" She shoved past him and started running for the door.

Groaning, he slowly turned around. "Clarke, wait a minute."

"No!" she shouted. "Just leave me alone!" She burst out the door, a hysterical, sobbing mess, and . . . he felt at a loss for what to do. She wanted him to be her rebound guy right now, but she really needed was a friend. But he _couldn't_ be just a friend anymore, because he'd gone and kissed her and told her he was in love with her. So any time he looked at her, it was charged, and any time he touched her, it was tempting.

Knowing he couldn't leave her out there by herself for too long, he waited only seconds before running out after her, figuring he'd take her home whether she wanted to be there or not. Her car wasn't working, so it wasn't like she'd be able to drive anywhere. She'd be miserable, but she'd be safe. Right now, in the state she was in, the streets were no place for her.

"Clarke!" he yelled, looking down the sidewalk in one direction. He didn't see her. Whipping his head to the other side, he didn't see any trace of her that way, either. "Clarke!" he yelled again as a sense of dread started to overcome him. He hadn't expected her to just take off like that. And where the hell had she gone? She could probably get somewhere pretty fast. The girl could run, and he knew that first-hand. But he was still faster.

" _Clarke!_ " Desperate to find her, he raced down the sidewalk, scanning in both directions for a girl who was very upset, possibly drunk, and way too vulnerable right now. He didn't see her at all, though, didn't see her up ahead, either. Taking his keys out of his pocket, he ran back to his car and got in, a man on a mission. He had to find Clarke; he had to make sure she was safe.

...

Police sirens wailed in the distance, making Clarke nervous. The neighborhood she had wandered into was an unfamiliar one, the kind where every other streetlight didn't work, so certain parts of the sidewalk were very dark. The traffic in that part of the city was minimal, but some of the men who did drive by rolled down their windows and shouted obscene things at her. She kept her head down and tried to ignore them, but it was harder to ignore the homeless man who reached out and tried to grab her ankle at one street corner. He made some unintelligible noises and held up a cup, like he was trying to ask for money. She jerked her foot away and crossed the street hastily.

She didn't know where she was or how she'd gotten here. She'd just taken off running, and this was where she'd ended up. She didn't even know how to get back to Grounders or how to get home from here. And to make matters worse, she'd left her purse in Bellamy's car. So she had no phone, no money. She was literally wandering around the cold, dark streets of New York City by herself, aimless, powerless, and completely clueless as to what she was even doing anymore.

A gust of wind whipped past, sending shivers up her spine, but nothing chilled her to the bone more than the fancy black car with tinted windows that slowly pulled up behind her and parked at the curb. She tried to just keep walking, but for every step she walked, it drove forward, so eventually, she slowly turned around, waiting for the window to roll down. It never did, because Roan opened the door and got out instead.

"What're you doing out here by yourself?" he said, feigning concern. "Don't you know it's not safe?"

The irony of him of all people saying that was not lost on her. It made her stomach churn to think that he may have been following her for a while now. This wasn't the type of neighborhood where he lived. He must have been lurking around at Grounders or something, waiting for her to leave.

"Not too talkative tonight, are we?" he observed.

The passenger door of the car swung open, and Echo climbed out. "I like her better this way," she said.

Roan smirked, waiting for his girlfriend to come around to his side of the car. When she stood before him, he put his hand under her chin, tilted her head back, and kissed her quickly. "Stand watch for me?" he asked.

She nodded, folding her arms over her chest as she leaned back against the vehicle.

 _Stand watch?_ Clarke thought nervously. _Like a lookout?_

"Come here, Clarke," Roan said as he eased past her. He started to walk back in between two buildings, into a narrow alley that was almost completely shrouded in darkness. Every self-defensive instinct in her body told her not to move, or to run. But when he turned back around and urged, "Come on," her feet started to do something really stupid: walking. Towards him. She followed him into that alley.

"What happened?" he asked, still acting like he cared.

Her mind spun as the evening's various relationship catastrophes flooded back to her. Roan didn't need to know about any of that. Even if she'd felt like telling him, she was pretty sure she couldn't speak right now. She was starting to feel like she could barely even move.

"Fine, you don't have to tell me," he said, leaning back against the brick wall. "It doesn't matter."

It did, though. It _did_ matter. Finn and Bellamy _both_ mattered to her. So much.

"All that really matters is . . . I'm here," he said, as though that were supposed to make her feel better somehow. "And you're here. And we're alone."

She shivered nervously, glancing over at Echo again. They weren't alone. But . . . she didn't seem too unaccustomed to this. In fact, she was calmly smoking a cigarette now, eyes constantly cast in either direction down the street, never at the two of them.

"You know I could've pinned you up against this wall by now and had my way with you," Roan said, "right?"

Her heart beat faster, and she felt afraid. Because she knew the truth in that. She wasn't a weak little girl, but she wasn't strong, either. Physically, Roan could do anything to her he wanted to, because he was so much bigger and stronger. He was overpowering, especially right now. Everything she'd been through tonight made her feel powerless.

"But I don't wanna do that," he said.

She knew better than to feel relieved for even a second. Whether Roan played the part of nice guy or went into full-on assault mode, the result was always the same: He convinced her to do things she didn't really want to do, and afterward, she always ended up feeling like someone she didn't want to be.

"Hey," he said, his voice still gruff and scratchy but almost soft for once. "I'll give you a thousand dollars if you give me a hand-job."

Her eyes bulged. A hand-job? A thousand dollars? He wanted to _pay_ her like an actual prostitute tonight? Was this how he'd gotten Ontari so wrapped around his finger?

"Right here," he said, grinning.

She looked around, out onto the street. The light coming from the two street lamps that actually did work was the only thing illuminating him enough for her to even see him. She couldn't read the expression in his eyes, but she was sure it was a cocky, overconfident one. And he wouldn't bother to pay much attention to the look in hers, but she was pretty sure it was terrified.

"Don't act so spooked," he said as he unfastened his jeans. "It's not like you've never handled one of these before."

She wanted to cry or scream or do something to stop this as he pulled his pants down far enough to release his cock. But she just stood there and let it happen. Yeah, he was right that she'd done this before. But only for Finn. Only for somebody that she'd loved. The thought of doing it to someone else, to _him_ of all people . . . it made her feel like she was going to be sick.

"A thousand dollars," he reminded her.

God, she didn't even care about the money. She could make far more than that in one night. And a thousand dollars didn't go anywhere in this city. Rent alone broke the bank.

"Go ahead," he urged.

Her jaw quivered, and tears stung her eyes as she stood there, contemplating what to do. And for some reason, even though she knew it was the _wrong_ thing to do, and even though she didn't want to, she reached forward into the darkness, feeling first the muscles of his lower abdomen, then the wiry hairs at his groin.

 _Oh god,_ she thought, struggling to breathe. _Oh god._

When she wrapped her hand around his shaft, she almost forgot what to do next. Because he was bigger than Finn, and her fingers were trembling.

"Stroke it," he told her.

She didn't want to. She _really_ didn't want to.

But she did. Fearfully but almost obediently, she stroked her hand up and down his cock, from the base to the tip, feeling him get all worked up beneath her touch.

"Yeah," he groaned, resting his head back against the wall. "Oh, fuck yeah."

She refused to look at him as she did this, and she wasn't about to look at Echo, either. So she fixated on trivial things: an empty pop can on the ground, some graffiti on the side of this building. Stuff like that. Meaningless.

"Harder," he rasped. "Go faster."

 _Faster?_ Maybe that was a good idea. Then it could just be done. A single tear spilled over onto her cheek as she did what he wanted, applying more pressure to her grip as she picked up the pace of her ministrations.

"Yeah, just like that," he praised.

 _Am I really doing this?_ she wondered. Lately, she'd had some nightmares like this, awful dreams that she'd been so relieved to wake up from. But this wasn't a nightmare. This was really happening. She'd really sunk this low.

"I'm gonna shoot my load," he announced.

Quickly, she withdrew her hand.

"No, don't stop." He grabbed it and put it on his cock again, thrusting against her palm. Feeling like she had no choice, she wrapped her fingers around his length again and resumed her stroking technique. As soon as she finished, then it was over. She just had to keep telling herself that.

"Shit," he swore suddenly, his whole body jerking as he came. She felt his cum squirt out all over her hand, hot and sticky and absolutely _disgusting._ She stroked him through his orgasm, through every, "Fuck, fuck," and "Yeah," that left his mouth. He called her a bitch as he rode out the wave, but he said it as if it were something to be proud of. "You're such a good bitch," he praised, and then he started to call her a cunt, too, until she began to withdraw her hand again. "No, keep it there," he told her, grabbing her wrist to hold it in place.

She stood there awkwardly and uncomfortably with her hand still wrapped around his dick, absolutely mortified by what she'd just done. She'd touched him, so what was next, letting him touch her in the same spot?

She got the answer to that question when he said, "Oh, I can't wait until that's your mouth instead."

 _My mouth?_ she thought, panicked. No, she couldn't do that. Could she? She didn't want to have oral sex with him. She didn't want any of this.

"Roan!" Echo called out suddenly.

He snapped himself out of his post-orgasm stupor, and Clarke jerked her hand away. She lowered her head in shame and listened as a car screeched to a stop out on the street. A cop, probably. A cop who would know what had been going on here and would probably arrest them both. Unless he was in the mood for a hand-job, too.

Roan had just gotten his pants zipped back up when heavy footsteps stormed up the sidewalk and into the alley. Clarke just _sensed_ it was Bellamy, and when she looked off to the side . . . there he was. On his way to save her.

"Clarke, are you okay?" he asked, rushing to her side.

She stared at him pleadingly, unable to answer. But no, she wasn't okay. He was too late.

"She's fine," Roan answered for her.

But Bellamy knew her well enough to know she _wasn't_ fine. So he stepped around Clarke, curled his hand into a fist, and swung straight at Roan's face. It landed with a loud thud, and Roan stumbled, losing his balance. He fell to the ground, on his hands and knees, and for just one split second, _he_ actually looked like the powerless one.

"Come on, let's go," Bellamy said, wrapping both arms around her. She must have looked incredibly breakable and incredibly frail in that moment, because he practically carried her out of that alley.

Of course, Roan started clamoring to his feet as they walked away, though, wouldn't stay down like that for long. "You're gonna pay for that, Blake," he warned loudly. "You're gonna pay."

Bellamy shot a glare back at him, but he didn't say anything, didn't seem worried because he was too focused on her. Too focused on getting her into his car and shutting the door for her before he ran around to the driver's side and got in. She had to hide her hand while he sped away from the curb, because the physical evidence of what she'd just done to Roan was still there. He must have noticed it. But he didn't say anything.

...

Bellamy was so worried about Clarke. He'd never seen her look quite as . . . damaged as she looked right now. And here he'd thought watching her drown her sorrows over Finn had been her lowest point for the night. But clearly he'd thought wrong.

He wasn't sure what exactly had gone down in that alley between her and Roan, but he knew it wasn't anything good. And she wasn't saying a word about it.

He drove her home wordlessly, and she slinked behind him on the way up to their floor. When he got to her door, he waited for her to take her keys out, but she never did. She just stood there, motionless, staring straight ahead at nothing with tear-filled eyes.

"Keys," he said, holding his hand out.

She shook herself out of her daze and reached into her purse—which she'd luckily had in his car—and handed the big clump of keys over to him. It didn't take him long to find the right one, since it looked just like the key to his place. He stuck it in the lock, twisted, and shoved his shoulder against the old door to get it to open. Then he stepped aside, expecting her to walk on in, but she stayed out in the hallway, staring inside as if there were monsters in there.

"Come on," he said, motioning her inward.

Still, she didn't even move.

"What's wrong?" he asked, mentally kicking himself for such a stupid question. What was _wrong_? On a night when she'd found out her boyfriend had cheated on her _and_ ended up in a dark alley with Roan?

"I don't . . . I don't wanna be here right now," she confessed quietly.

He wasn't sure if that had something to do with Finn, but . . . probably, right? It didn't seem like he was home yet, but at some point, he would be. And she probably just wanted to steer clear of him for a while.

Pulling the door shut, he tried option number two when he motioned to his place. She nodded mutely, and he handed her back his keys before taking his own out of his pocket. He unlocked the door swiftly, holding it open for her, and she ducked under his arm and went inside. She roamed around the dark room for a moment before he turned on the lights, but the minute he flipped the switch, she squinted against the sudden brightness.

"We'll leave it off," he said, flipping the switch down again. The darkness returned, and that was what she seemed to want right now. She was being so . . . so closed off. Not talking, barley even looking at him. It wasn't like she was being standoffish or anything, though, even though she _had_ gotten upset with him back at the club tonight. It was more as if she were . . . ashamed. She was ashamed. Of something.

Almost in a trance, she walked into his bathroom and shut the door. He heard the sink running a moment later, and he wasn't sure if she was actually washing something or just turned it on to drown out the sound of her own crying. He tried to give her privacy, tried to give her space, and busied himself by making up the bed for her. He'd done laundry this morning and hadn't put the sheets back on yet. But she'd probably be sleeping there tonight, and she deserved a freshly-made bed to lie down in.

After several minutes, when the sound of rushing water from that bathroom sink hadn't quit or even quieted down, he had to go check on her. He knocked once on the door, lightly, and asked, "Clarke, are you okay?" But since he didn't get any response, he said, "Clarke?" and let himself in. She stood at the sink, washing one of her hands. "Hey, are you . . ." Something wasn't right, though. Her hand had been scrubbed to the point where it was red, and the water was red, too. "What's . . ." She was bleeding. Clarke was washing her hands to the point of _bleeding._ "Clarke." He quickly turned off the water, which was probably scalding hot by now, and lifted her hand in his. "Oh god." Her knuckles looked the way his had back when he'd punched a hole in the wall during high school. She was hurting herself. "Here." He quickly pulled a washcloth off his towel rack, wet it with cool water, and started to clean the blood off. Trying to be gentle, he pressed the cloth to her skin, trying to soak up the blood rather than scrub it away.

"It won't come off," she said.

"What?" Seemed like it was coming off just fine to him. It hadn't had time to cake on or anything.

"What I did," she clarified.

What she . . . He didn't like the sound of that. Mainly because, whatever had happened in that alley tonight, it seemed as if she were putting the blame and responsibility for it on herself. And that wasn't right. "Alright, I got you, okay?" he said, using a hand towel to pat dry her sensitive skin. He remembered what he'd used to patch up his hand after he'd injured it, so he reached into one of his bathroom drawers and pulled out some gauze. "You're gonna be fine," he promised as he began wrapping her hand. Her palm was all scratched up, too, so he wrapped the gauze around several times, then secured it in place with the only thing he had: a couple of Band-Aids. It wasn't exactly the greatest first aid ever given, but at least it was something. "Come on, come lie down," he urged, putting his hand on her shoulders, ushering her out of the bathroom. It was almost 6:00 a.m. The sun would be coming up soon, and she'd had one hell of a stressful night. She needed to rest.

She seemed to be walking pretty slowly as he walked with her over to the bed. Instead of lying down, she just sat on the side, looking down at her lap and picking at the Band-Aids keeping the gauze wrapped. "How did you find me there?" she asked quietly.

He sat down beside her, careful not to sit too close in case she . . . didn't want that right now. But he didn't want to be too far away, either. He wanted her to know he was there. "I drove all over looking for you," he told her. "Then I saw Echo standing out there by Roan's car and . . ." He trailed off, shrugging, not really sure how he'd just happened to end up over there. He'd almost taken a right at one street corner, but he'd ended up taking a left. And he'd ended up on that street, in that alley . . . with them. "I don't know," he said, "I just had a feeling."

"A bad one?" she guessed.

As much as he hated to say it . . . "Yeah." The whole time that he'd been driving, he'd had this awful, gut feeling that Clarke was out there somewhere, in trouble, and he'd been mentally kicking himself for ever letting her run out of that club in the first place. "What did he do to you?" he asked, feeling like . . . he needed to know. He had a pretty clear suspicion in mind given what an effort she'd made to first hide and then clean that one hand.

She let out a heavy sigh and hung her head in shame. "I did it . . . to him."

Did . . . _it?_ Meaning . . .? His stomach clenched. _Shit._ It was even worse than he thought. "Oh," he said, trying not to picture it.

"No, not . . . not _that_ ," she quickly clarified. "But he said he'd give me a thousand dollars if I . . . touched him." She gulped audibly. "So I did."

He frowned, back at his original suspicion now. Hand-job, blow-job, anything . . . it was _all_ awful to picture. "Why would you do that?" he asked her, standing up. He wasn't trying to make it sound like he was accusing her or blaming her in any way, but . . . he just didn't understand the thought-process. "I thought you were trying to stay away from him."

"I was, but . . ." She trailed off, sighing again. "Bellamy, this didn't just _happen_."

Oh, he _really_ didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

She shuddered, averting her eyes as she revealed, "It's _been_ happening."

 _No,_ his mind protested. _No._ She couldn't be saying that. All this time, he'd been afraid of this, wanting to protect her from it. But the more he heard, the more he realized what a failure he'd been.

"It's more and more each time," she said, her voice wavering. "This was the worst."

"What're you talking about?" Roan had said it could get worse for her, but that was only if he'd gone to the police about all of this. And he hadn't. He hadn't gone to anyone, so why the hell hadn't he been leaving her alone?

"I was gonna avoid him, but then—then he had those guys beat you up," she stuttered, "and . . . I don't know, I just felt like I had to _do_ something."

"No, Clarke . . ." He dragged his hand through his hair as a tremendous weight of guilt sank down into the pit of his stomach. Clarke wasn't Ontari, wasn't some down-and-out girl persuaded by some sweet talk and promises of money. There was a bigger reason for all of this, and he was beginning to realize what it was: him.

"So I talked to him, and . . . he promised he'd leave you alone if I gave him one kiss," she explained. "So I kissed him."

 _No, you can't do that,_ he thought. With Roan, it never stopped there. He always wanted more, and he always assumed he could just get whatever he wanted, especially from women.

"But then he kept wanting more," she said. "And more. And it just escalated." She shivered, her whole body tensing up, and he wondered if it was because . . . if it was because he'd touched her. Without her permission. Against her will. The thought of it made his blood boil. "I know it's disgusting," she said, "but . . . I didn't want him to hurt you."

"He's hurting _you_ , Clarke." Didn't she understand that that was so much worse?

"I just wanted to protect you," she whimpered.

"No, don't . . ." He paced back and forth in front of her, trying not to lash out, because the last thing she needed was him getting angry at her. He wasn't even angry, at least not at her. But he _was_ infuriated. With Roan. With himself. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine," she argued. "You said people broke into this place, and I saw what they did to your car, and-"

"Clarke, don't ever . . . don't _ever_ feel like you have to do something like that for me," he said, a tone of desperation in his own voice. "Please." He hated to think of her out there with Roan, her hands on him, letting him put his hands on her, all because she thought she had to. All because she was worried about him. "Oh god, this is my fault then."

"No. It's mine," she said. "I'm so stupid, Bellamy. No wonder I'm not in college like all my friends. I'm an idiot; I make dumb choices."

"You're not an idiot," he assured her.

"But I'm not some brave, badass princess like you said I was." She started to cry openly now, no longer able to keep the tears brimming in her eyes inside. "I'm just some damsel in distress who needed you to come save her tonight. And I didn't even want you to know about any of this."

"You should've just told me." Again, he wasn't trying to blame her, but . . . if she'd told him, he could've put a stop to it. He could've done something.

"I was afraid," she squeaked out.

Kneeling down in front of her, he took her scrubbed-raw hand in his and said, "Clarke, look at me." She didn't at first, so he waited until she slowly lifted her head and met his eyes to keep going. "He's not gonna lay a hand on you ever again. Okay?"

Her forehead wrinkled with worry. "No, what're you gonna do?"

He wasn't sure, but he already had a few ideas, some more rational than others. "I'll figure it out."

She squeezed his hand as well as she could with all the gauze covering hers and fretted, "No, Bellamy, I don't want you to get hurt. Please, just stay away from him."

"You're the one who needs to stay away from him. Whatever he says, whatever he does . . . I'll be fine, alright?" he insisted, throwing caution to the wind when it came to his own well-being. He'd throw down in a fight with Roan and all the thugs he liked to hire if that was what it took. He'd make a few threats of his own if he needed to. "Promise me, Clarke . . . promise me you won't worry about me anymore," he implored. "I'm gonna handle this."

She still looked worried, but she looked tired, too. Tired of dealing with all of this on her own. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. And I'm not gonna get hurt," he vowed. "Everything's gonna be fine." He wanted her to believe that, but truth be told . . . he knew he might get hurt here. Roan was a dangerous guy, but that was why he couldn't let him have any power over Clarke anymore. He had to do whatever it took to put a stop to it.

Sniffling, she said, "You know, tonight, he didn't . . . he didn't even make any threats. I just . . ." She shrugged sadly. "I just did it. So I guess I'm pretty much a whore now."

"No, don't say that." He hated that word, hated it especially in connection with her.

"Why not? It's true," she said, sounding _so_ defeated. "You know it is. Sex for money. You saw enough of that growing up."

He had, and some of those things he'd seen had scarred him for life. Which was why he was going to make damn sure a night like this wasn't a permanent scar on Clarke's life. "You're not a whore," he told her. "You got caught up in something you couldn't control. But that doesn't change the fact that you're still the most amazing, incredible, _beautiful_ girl—woman—I've ever known." With his free hand, he reached up and stroked her cheek, but she turned her face away from his touch. "What?" he asked.

"It's just . . ." She inhaled sharply, her lips trembling, eyes sparkling with tears as she whimpered his name. "Bellamy?"

 _I'm here,_ he thought, waiting for her to continue. _I'm right here._

"I feel like I don't even know myself anymore," she said in a rush, her words spilling out on top of one another, along with all those tears. She cried heavily, her whole body shaking and heaving with sobs, and he didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around her, scooping her up practically onto his lap as he sat back down on that bed again. She clung to his shoulders as she cried, and she couldn't seem to stop crying. He wasn't sure how long they sat there together like that or if it was even making her feel any better, but he sure as hell wasn't letting go of her. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again.


	34. Chapter 34

_Chapter 34_

Though he didn't feel like he'd gotten much sleep, Bellamy started to wake up around 10:00 that morning. His eyes flittered open, and when he made out the big red letters on his bedside alarm clock, he tried to close them again. But something else caught his attention: all the long blonde hair sprawled out on his arm and across his pillow. Clarke lay next to him, curled up against him with her head on his chest and her legs tangled with his. Her bandaged hand lay over his heart, and for the moment, at least, she looked to be sleeping peacefully.

He was so glad she was getting some rest. Even if it was just a little bit, it was better than nothing. It sort of made him feel proud that, even after everything that had happened last night, she still felt comfortable enough with him and in his bed to fall asleep.

Since the last thing he wanted to do was wake her, he very carefully disentangled himself from her and sat up, scooting towards the foot of the bed. He loved lying there with her, being her human pillow or blanket or maybe both rolled into one, but he had to piss. Maybe after that, though . . . maybe then he could just crawl back into that bed with her.

He made sure to pull the blanket up further over her shoulders, afraid that she'd get cold without him, but he'd only taken a few steps towards the bathroom when a loud knock pounded on the door.

 _What the hell?_ He crept towards the door quietly, peeking out the peephole. It was so dirty that it was hard to see out of it, but he could just barely make out that familiar dumbass hair. _Finn._

"Bellamy?" the loser yelled, knocking again. "Bellamy, you there?"

His voice was enough to startle Clarke awake. Groggily, she sat up, rubbing her head. "Is that-"

"Shh," he whispered, pressing his index finger to his mouth.

"I can't find Clarke," Finn said, apparently not dissuaded from talking even though he wasn't getting a response. Yet again, he knocked, even more insistently this time, but Bellamy just stood on the other side of the door, not about to answer.

At last, Finn went away. Seconds later, Clarke's phone rang in her purse, but she made no move to answer it. Not surprising. He'd figured she wouldn't want to talk to him yet.

"I can't believe he cheated on me," she muttered dejectedly, staring forlornly at the bedspread covering her lap.

Bellamy could. But even though he didn't like Finn at all, he _loved_ Clarke. And he hated seeing her in pain. "I'm sorry, Clarke," he said.

She shrugged sadly. "It's okay. I did some pretty unbelievable stuff last night, too."

He still didn't like the way that sounded, like she was blaming herself. "You were upset. You were vulnerable," he said, wanting to put the blame where it belonged. "Roan took advantage of that."

She gulped, nodding unconvincingly.

"Let me see your hand," he said, crossing the room so he could sit down on the bed again. She held it out for him, and he carefully unwrapped the gauze to see how it looked underneath. The blood on her knuckles was caked on there now, no longer actually bleed _ing._ Her skin wasn't so red anymore, either. "It looks better," he said, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand. His fingers slipped underneath her palm, and he ended up holding her hand, just gently. Or at least he hoped it was gentle. Maybe nothing felt gentle to her right now.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For taking care of me."

He tried to smile at her, but . . . he really couldn't. Because he didn't feel like he'd done that. Not yet.

Clarke didn't seem to be in any hurry to get out of bed, but she wasn't going back to sleep, either. So Bellamy got up, went to the bathroom, and got in the shower. Clarke had kind of . . . drooled on him a little bit last night. Not that he minded.

Standing in that shower, he started to feel like crap. Because he started to think about what Roan had been doing to her, how he could've— _should've_ —done something to stop it. Knowing Roan and how self-righteous he was, he'd probably gotten away with it right underneath Bellamy's nose. It'd probably happened right in the club. He'd been out there serving drinks, and Roan had been . . . feeling her up. Maybe doing more than that. He wasn't quite sure.

The more he thought about it, the more pissed he became. Finn was a fucking bastard, but Roan . . . Roan was on a whole different level. Finn had broken Clarke's heart last night, but Bellamy was worried Roan had just broken _her._

No. He couldn't let that happen.

When he walked out of the bathroom, fully-clothed because he'd had the common sense to take a change of clothes in there with him, he found Clarke sitting on the couch watching some cable channel he didn't even know he had. She'd thrown on one of his t-shirts, and she had a bowl of cereal in her hands. "Is this okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." He was more than happy to have her make herself at home there. In fact, he really hoped she wouldn't leave for a while. All day, maybe. He was completely fine with it if she wanted to stay there all day. "Hey, I gotta . . . I gotta go do some stuff," he said, reluctant to leave, even though he knew he couldn't just sit around all day doing nothing. Every second he spent there was another second Roan just . . . got away with it. And he wasn't gonna let that happen. "But you can just stay here, if you want," he offered.

She didn't even try to protest that. "Really?"

"Yeah."

She exhaled shakily and sounded relieved when she said, "Okay."

He nodded, hoping he'd come home later to find her still curled up on this couch, still in his shirt, and her hand still in this improved condition. "Keep the door locked, though, okay?" he told her, nervous about leaving her alone just in case . . . just in case. "Call me if you need anything. I'll be back later."

She managed a small smile, the grateful kind, and whispered her thanks again.

Bellamy's first stop that day was none other than the police station. He just felt like things were to the point now where he had to at least try to get some help dealing with it. He sat down with a cop and revealed everything that Clarke had told him, but the guy seemed . . . almost unconcerned.

"So this girl . . . claims she was assaulted?" he asked.

"More like coerced," Bellamy corrected. "But still, she didn't really want to."

"I see." The officer jotted down a few notes, then returned to the questions. "And how did this man . . ."

"Roan," Bellamy cut in. " Roan Azgeda. A-Z-G-"

"I got it."

Bellamy frowned. He didn't get it, though. He'd already had to correct this guy's spelling twice.

"How did he coerce her?"

He groaned, regretting now that he'd used that word. It didn't sound menacing enough. "Well, last night he said he'd give her money."

The cop's bushy eyebrows shot upward.

"But she's not . . ." Bellamy knew what he was thinking, but he didn't want him to have that impression of Clarke. He'd seen this reaction before, back when he'd been a kid going to the police, trying to get them to do something about the men his mom kept bringing home. "It's not like she's a prostitute," he said. "He's been doing this to her for weeks now."

"Paying her for sexual favors?"

"No, he was . . ." Bellamy sighed. "He was threatening . . . someone."

"Her?"

"No. Me," he reluctantly admitted. "He threatened to hurt me if she didn't . . ." It still made him guilty as hell to think about that, so he couldn't talk about it much. "Now do you see how wrong this is?"

The officer didn't readily agree with him the way he would have liked. Instead, he just kept asking questions. "And how did the two of them come to know each other?"

Bellamy sighed heavily. "He visits the club she works at."

"Works at?"

"Yeah." Maybe he'd just think Clarke was a bartender like him, or . . . a DJ or something.

"And which club is that?"

 _Oh, crap._ He really should have just said she was a bartender. But if he did and then the cops found out he was lying, he'd lose all credibility. His story wouldn't mean anything anymore. "Grounders," he mumbled.

"Ah." The cop nodded slowly, almost as if he'd expected that.

"No, don't—don't write this off as nothing; it's _not_ nothing," Bellamy snapped. "I've seen this guy when he's around her. He's a creep. And he won't stop."

"Listen . . ." The officer put down his notes and spoke calmly when he said, "We see this kind of thing all the time. Sometimes a woman in that line of work . . . she develops relationships with the men who come to watch her, often intimate ones."

"There's nothing _intimate_ about it," Bellamy argued. "He forced her to jack him off last night. He's been forcing her to do things she hasn't wanted to do for weeks now, and you . . ." He trailed off, completely fed up with this guy's complete and utter disinterest. "You don't even care, do you?" He shook his head in astonishment and grunted. "Typical." He should have known they wouldn't be any help. Nobody had ever helped his mom, and that had even been a small town. This was a huge city, a huge city where one stripper was exactly the same as the other, where Clarke was just another Ontari to these people. They didn't give a damn about helping her. If anything, they'd probably find a way to blame her, to say she'd led him on or something, that she'd been asking for it.

"Way to protect and serve the community," he grumbled, pushing his chair back. "You guys are doin' a hell of a job."

"She's welcome to come talk to us, but without some proof of misconduct . . ."

"No, you know what?" He stood up, done with this shit. "I'll handle it myself."

He stormed out of the station, even more pissed off now than he had been when he walked in. His phone rang as he trundled down the sidewalk, and he whipped it out, wondering if it was Clarke. It wasn't, but it _was_ his sister.

"Hey, O," he answered. Pretty rare thing for her to call him rather than just text.

"Bellamy, guess what?" she said, and before he could actually guess, she blurted, "I got into college!"

"You did?" He stopped in the middle of that sidewalk, finally feeling like he had something to smile about today.

"Yeah, they just emailed me my acceptance letter this morning. Can you believe it?"

"Wow." Part of him couldn't, actually. Octavia hadn't really applied herself in high school. She cut class, got caught in the janitor's closet with Ilian a lot, and spent more time complaining about her assignments than she did actually working on them. But he knew she'd scored pretty decently on the ACT, so he'd always known she would stand a chance. "That's great, O," he said, really proud of her. "So where'd you get accepted?"

"LSU!" she exclaimed.

"Octavia . . ." Hell, he had an LSU blanket. He'd been thinking about going there once upon a time himself. "That's a great school."

"I know, and Ilian's gonna go there, too, so . . . it's kinda perfect," she babbled. "I mean, if I decide to go."

"If?" he echoed, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's expensive, and Mom says we'd have to take out, like, a crap ton of student loans, and-"

"No, you have to go," he cut in.

"Well, I mean, I think I _want_ to."

"So you have to. Please," he begged. "Please, O, promise me . . . promise me you'll go." He didn't want to think of her winding up in the same kind of situation Clarke was in now, the kind where she had a job she knew wasn't good for her and made decisions she wouldn't have if she'd just . . . if she'd just had something else going for her. "You can study anything, do anything with your life," he said, hoping their mother would do her best to convince her, too. This was the one person in their family who actually had the chance to go make something of herself, to get an education, to do something with her life. "You can make enough money to pay back all those student loans someday. You just . . . you gotta do this."

She didn't say anything for a moment, probably a bit taken aback by his desperation. "Okay," she said finally. "We'll make it work."

He breathed an inward sigh of relief, happy to picture her on the LSU campus, in a dorm room with some annoying roommate, even though she'd probably be sneaking into Ilian's dorm a lot at night. And yeah, she'd probably go to some parties, too, might even get wasted, but at least she'd have him there with her. That kid wasn't going to let anything happen to her, and it was . . . it was _college._ The potential for good things happening to her there far outweighed the bad. "I'm proud of you," he told her, feeling like he'd needed this right now. Something, anything to remind him that not every girl he loved was hurting right now.

"Thanks, big brother," she said, and he could practically hear her smiling through the phone.

Someone who definitely _wasn't_ smiling when he saw her that day was Anya. He sulked into the club, knowing she was going to be pissed, bracing himself to possibly even get fired. "I got your texts," he told her.

"Oh, good, then you already know I'm not happy." She poured herself a drink, glaring at him. "For god's sakes, Bellamy, how is it possible to close up and not even lock the front door?"

He'd been in too much of a rush. But he didn't expect her to understand that.

"Not to mention the fact that you didn't bother setting the security alarm," she went on. "There were still open bottles out on the bar. I mean . . . what is this?"

"I left in a hurry," he tried to explain.

"Too big of a hurry to lock the damn door?" she roared. "Oh, let me guess: a girl?"

 _Not just any girl,_ he thought, but the _last_ thing he needed to do was mention Clarke's name. "Something like that," he muttered.

"Figures." She grunted, then took a drink. "You know, if you would stop and think with something other than your lower head, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

If she knew what had been happening, though . . . it wasn't like he'd been horny or anything. He'd been scared to death for Clarke, and as it'd turned out, he had every reason to be.

"Tonight, why don't you do your job instead of being so preoccupied with getting laid?" she suggested angrily.

"I can't work tonight," he told her, cringing as he said the words.

"Oh, this just gets better and better."

"I'm sorry. There's something I . . ." He swallowed hard. "Something I have to take care of."

She rolled her eyes.

"I already called Murphy. He said he'd fill in for me."

She crossed her arms over her chest, still holding her glass, and glared at him warningly. "You're skating on thin ice, Bellamy."

Yeah, he sensed that. And he didn't like that feeling. But hell, at this point, he'd fall _through_ that thin ice for Clarke Griffin.

...

 _Just the bare necessities_ , Clarke reminded herself as she ventured into the bathroom with clothes strewn over one arm, her sketchbook squeezed underneath the other. She wasn't moving in with Bellamy or anything. Just . . . staying another night, probably. She needed something to wear other than his t-shirts, and she needed a toothbrush. And the sketchbook . . . maybe it wasn't a _necessity_ , per say, but . . . she just felt like she needed an outlet for everything she was feeling. And drawing seemed like the perfect thing.

She'd just plucked up her toothbrush from its holder by the sink when she heard the front door open and close, Finn's voice following. "Clarke? You home?"

Shit, she _so_ did not want to see him or talk to him right now. Flipping off the bathroom light, she scurried into the bathtub and pulled the shower curtain closed around it. It was a _really_ stupid hiding place, and if Finn pulled back that curtain and saw her, she'd have some major explaining to do. Although . . . hell, he'd _slept_ with another girl. So if anyone had something to explain, it was him.

"Clarke?"

She listened as he came down the hallway and walked into their bedroom, looking for her. Seconds later, he flipped on the bathroom light and swore, "Jesus Christ, where the hell is she?"

 _Right here,_ she thought. _Don't find me._ She couldn't deal with him right now.

Luckily, his phone rang, and that distracted him. Gave her a chance to listen in, too, and what she heard was . . . interesting. It started with, "Hey, babe."

She frowned. _Babe?_ Was that what he called Raven now?

"Yeah, I'd love to," he said, his voice growing fainter as he left the bathroom and walked back out to the kitchen, "but . . . I can't. I gotta find Clarke right now."

Her first reaction was a ridiculous, _That's sweet._ But she realized immediately after that, no, it wasn't sweet. Yes, he'd been looking for her all morning, but he'd been with Raven all night.

"I know, I know she's not . . ." She couldn't understand the rest of what he said there, but she did make out another, "I gotta find her," followed by a promise. "I'll call you later, alright?"

Of course he would. He'd probably make some excuse to go spend time with her, too. He'd sleep with her again. And again. And again.

Finn left shortly after he showed up, which was good news for her. If he'd decided to stick around, she would have been stuck in that bathtub for a while. But since he was out of there, she was out of there, too. She went right back over to Bellamy's with her clothes, toothbrush, and sketchbook in hand, and she sat right back down on his couch, where she could eat his ice cream, watch pointless shows on his TV, and keep lounging around in the shirt that smelled liked him.

Halfway into a new episode of _M.A.S.H._ —it was a marathon, and her dad had always liked that show—she decided to text Finn, just so he'd stop running around looking for her. _Sorry I've been MIA, girl stuff with Harper. Probably won't be home tonight_ ,she typed out. She sent it quickly, not even feeling the slightest bit bad about it. If Finn could lie to her, she had no problem lying to him.

...

Bellamy didn't know exactly where Roan lived, but he knew the general neighborhood. He'd heard Ontari talk about it, about all the nice houses, the big lawns, the fancy cars. He drove down streets that were so much different than his own, searching for any vehicle that looked familiar. It was pure luck when he spotted the same car from last night, the one Echo had been leaning back against while playing guard dog by that alley.

Roan had a huge house. Two stories. Two-car garage. Fenced in yard. It was a far cry from the dingy Mount Weather apartments, from the crime-covered streets they lived on. But there was a hell of a lot of crime that happened here. Bellamy was sure of it. And the police were all too willing to sweep it under the rug and ignore it. They weren't going to do anything. Even if someone did decide to investigate, Roan would probably just pay his way out of it.

Bellamy parked a few houses away and hunkered down in his seat, waiting for someone to leave. It took a while, but finally, a different car pulled up, and Roan came out of the house and got in. Bellamy wasn't sure who was at the wheel, but he followed them.

Their stops were so typical, so mundane. The gas station. The post office. Even a daycare, because the driver actually had his kid in the backseat and needed to drop her off. Bellamy made sure to stay far enough behind in traffic so that they wouldn't see him or get suspicious. But when they got out of the car to get lunch at a food truck, he got out, too, lingering behind them, standing in line with his head down, listening in on their conversation. It didn't get interesting until the driver, someone whose voice Bellamy recognized as one of the guys who'd attacked him, asked, "So what're we gonna do?"

"You mean about . . ." Roan trailed off, grunting. "We're gonna put him in his place, once and for all."

 _Me,_ Bellamy realized. _They're talking about me._

"That little chump thinks he's her knight in shining armor, but really, he's just in the way."

Bellamy tensed up.

"So you want us to . . . get him out of the way?" the other guy asked.

"Hmm . . . rough him up. A _lot_ ," Roan instructed. "More than you did last time. Make sure you break some bones."

His friend grinned. "Sounds like a party. When?"

"Tonight. We'll go to Grounders. Without Echo. She's got her thing for him."

 _Tonight?_ Bellamy thought, wondering which of his bones they'd try to break. His arms? Maybe even his legs?

"What about the chick?" the right-hand-man questioned.

Roan smirked. "Putty in my hands without Prince Charming there to rescue her."

That got a laugh out of his accomplice. "You gonna fuck her?"

"Hell, yeah, I'm gonna fuck her. Right up her ass."

Bellamy's blood boiled when he said that, and he forgot about any fears for himself. Screw his arms and legs. He could handle himself in a fight, and if something got broken, something got broken. But he'd be damned if he let Roan break Clarke Griffin any more than he already had. It wasn't happening. He wasn't _letting_ it happen.

Having overheard enough of their plans, Bellamy went home to formulate one of his own. It would have been nice to just be able to tell the authorities and let them handle it, but since that wasn't happening, he had to take matters into his own hands.

Late in the afternoon, he walked inside his apartment and saw that Clarke was still there, just as he'd hoped she would be. She was lying on her side on his couch now, sleeping, and it looked like a peaceful sleep. She didn't _look_ like she was having a nightmare. But . . .

He noticed a drawing lying on the floor, a page torn out of Clarke's sketchbook. It was wrinkled, like she'd crumpled it up, but when he smoothed it out . . . well, he realized she might still be having nightmares after all.

She'd sketched herself in some kind of dark forest, being pulled one way by a hideous-looking monster with two heads: one head that looked like Roan, the other that looked like Finn. But he saw himself in the drawing, too, on the other side, reaching out for her as she reached out for him. Their fingertips were just barely touching, and she was crying.

Was that really what she felt like right now? He couldn't blame her if she did. But that drawing just confirmed to him that he had to _do_ something. She needed him, otherwise she'd be pulled into that dark, dark place, and she might never make it back out. It sounded over-dramatic as hell, but . . . well, Roan was right about one thing: He did want to rescue this girl.

He picked up her pencil and scribbled _I love you_ into the bottom corner of the drawing, where an artist might typically sign his or her name. Hopefully she'd see it. Maybe she wouldn't. But just in case something didn't go his way tonight, just in case something went wrong . . . he needed to feel like he'd told her that one more time.

...

Bellamy got to Grounders right after it opened, needing to get in there and get out before Roan showed up. He approached Murphy at the bar, and his friend looked puzzled to see him. "Hey, I thought you needed me to work for you tonight," he said.

"I do," Bellamy confirmed.

"Why are you here then?"

He sighed, wishing he didn't have to be. He would have loved to be back at home with Clarke, lying in bed with her for another night, trying to get her mind on something else, _anything_ but this. "Look, Roan's gonna come here tonight," he revealed.

"Is Clarke even dancing?"

"No. He's looking for me. He wants to . . ." Bellamy trailed off, not wanting to involve Murphy any more than he already had to. "Look, I just need you to keep him here, okay? Keep pouring him drinks. If he asks you where I am, tell him I'm on my way. Got it?"

"Uh . . ." Murphy seemed totally confused—and why wouldn't he be?—but he agreed to it anyway. "I guess."

"And if he tries to leave, stall him, alright?"

"Bellamy, what the hell's goin' on?"

"Nothing." He turned to leave, but then he thought of something else he needed from Murphy, and he spun back around. "But if he does leave, let me know, alright?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." Now that he had his eyes and ears at Grounders, he could go.

"Hey, Bellamy?" Murphy called after him. "Is everything alright?"

Bellamy gulped, trying to sound confident when he answered, "It will be." He'd never gone toe-to-toe with someone like Roan before, but . . . hell, first time for everything. A guy like that only understood two things: violence and power. If he had to be a little violent to take some of that power away from him, then so be it.

He drove back to that nice neighborhood, to that expensive house, and sat outside in his car, heart pounding, stomach in knots. He couldn't believe it'd gotten to the point that he was really doing this, but . . . what choice did he have? It was stupid and reckless and crazy as hell, but . . . desperate times called for desperate measures.

Breathing shakily, he opened up his glove compartment and reached all the way back to grab something he'd hoped to never hold in his hand: a gun.


	35. Chapter 35

_Chapter 35_

Clarke felt stiff when she woke up, and when she opened her eyes and found herself sideways on a couch, she understood why. It wasn't the most comfortable couch of all time, and it wasn't even her own. She'd fallen asleep at Bellamy's again, and now that it was dark, the light from the TV was the only light illuminating the room.

Sitting up slowly, she looked around, quietly calling, "Bellamy?" But he wasn't there, and there was no light coming from the bathroom. So he wasn't home.

She frowned. Where _was_ he?

She checked her phone, hoping to see that he'd called or texted, but the only text she had was from Finn. _Glad your ok I was worried,_ it read, and she rolled her eyes at his spelling error and run-on sentence. That was almost as annoying as his pathetic excuse for concern was.

Because there was really only one person she cared to be around right now, she erased that message and called Bellamy's number. He didn't pick up on the second ring, or the third. After the fourth ring, it switched over to his voicemail, which was short and to the point. _"Hey, it's Bellamy. Leave a message."_

She sighed as the beep signaled the start of her message. "Hey, it's me. I was just wondering where you are. It's kinda late," she said, not sure what could have possibly taken him all day, unless he'd decided to go into work. "Well, I'm still at your place. I hope you don't mind," she said. "It feels kind of weird being here all day without you, though." She looked around, wishing he was there in that bed so she could go snuggle up next to him like last night. Or out on that balcony, where she could go stand and talk to him. Or in the kitchen, fixing something to eat. "Anyway. I'm sure you'll be back soon. Bye," she said, not sure she'd be able to fall back asleep now. She'd been dozing all day, but she wanted to be awake when he got home. She wanted to thank him again for coming to her rescue last night, for letting her stay there, for not judging her or looking at her differently now that he knew . . .

Now that he knew.

When she set her phone down on the coffee table, she spotted the drawing she'd done earlier during one of _M.A.S.H._ 's more depressing episodes. Technically, it was one of the best sketches she'd ever done, but it'd nearly made her sick to her stomach to draw out the details of Roan's face, and drawing Finn's hadn't been much easier.

She noticed something that wasn't supposed to be there, though, something that hadn't been before. Down in the corner in sloppy, block-letter handwriting was an _I love you._ And it had to be from Bellamy.

 _He loves me,_ she thought, letting that sink in. She'd known it, of course, but knowing it before last night and knowing it now . . . it just felt different. And she couldn't ignore it.

Her eyes lingered on those words a little longer than they should have, and her mind started to race. Bellamy _loved_ her, yet he wasn't there for her right now. Either he had a very strange way of showing love or . . .

Or he loved her more than she realized. Maybe even enough to go out there and do something stupid.

She shot up from the couch, dropping the drawing, and raced to grab her shoes and jacket. She had a horrible feeling she knew where Bellamy was tonight, and she hated to think of what might happen to him while he was there.

...

Making sure the gun was completely concealed in the back of his jeans, Bellamy tugged down on his shirt, tried to erase his nerves, and pounded on the door to Roan's house. He didn't have time to waste. His window of opportunity was probably gonna be pretty small here, because if Roan got to the club and found out he wasn't working tonight, he might come right back here.

Echo came to the door and opened it in no time at all. "Well, well, well," she said, giving him all sorts of sultry bedroom eyes as she leaned against the doorframe, "I've had rape fantasies that start like this."

He felt repulsed, but he couldn't show it. "Are you alone?" he asked.

"You bet your ass I am." Opening the door wider, she suggested, "Why don't you . . . come inside?"

Just the way she said that . . . it made him want to roll his eyes. But he didn't. "This isn't what you're hoping for," he said as he slid past her and entered the lavish home.

"No? Then what is it?"

"It's about what happened last night. To Clarke."

She shut the door, snorting. "Nothing happened to her."

He gave her a look of disbelief. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? You were there. You _know_ -"

"You're right, I _was_ there," she said, grazing past him as she strode into the living room. "And that's how I know that Roan didn't force her to do anything. He didn't threaten her. Hell, he didn't even threaten you."

"No, not this time." He followed her, trying not to be intimidated by the vaulted ceilings and grand staircase. "But this has been going on for a while now, and you . . ." It quickly occurred to him that he wasn't telling Echo anything she didn't already know. "You know that, don't you?"

She spun back around to face him, face cold and set, arms crossed defiantly over her chest.

"What the hell?" he spat, outraged. "How can you just go along with it? You know what he's doing, and you don't even try to stop him?"

"Why would I stop him? He's not doing anything wrong."

"He takes advantage of innocent girls!" Bellamy roared. "First Ontari, now Clarke . . ."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Like you've never taken advantage of anyone before."

"No, I haven't," he insisted. "I'm not like that."

"But haven't you taken advantage of the fact that women take one look at you and go weak in the knees?" she pointed out. "Haven't you used your good looks and your charm to get what you want?"

His jaw clenched, but he refused to let her get to him. It wasn't the same. His one night stands weren't anything like Roan's tactics were. He wasn't hurting anyone; he'd never do that.

"Before Clarke, I seem to recall that you always brought girls home from that bar," Echo said, slinking closer to him. "Use 'em up one night, toss 'em out the next morning. Am I right?"

He swallowed hard, wishing she was a little more wrong than she was. "That's different," he argued.

"How?

"Consensual, for starters. A one night stand isn't the same as threatening someone so they'll sleep with you."

"Oh, Clarke hasn't slept with Roan," she said. "Not yet."

 _Not ever,_ he thought, determined to keep it from getting to that. "She's not going to."

"Why? Because she's so in love with you?" Echo frowned, tilting her head to the side curiously. "Or is she? Doesn't she still have that boyfriend? I really can't keep things straight with that girl, nor do I care to."

"Look, I know you don't like her," he acknowledged, "but this whole thing's gotten out of control. Roan's on his way to Grounders right now so his friends can pummel me. Did you know that?"

For a second, her eyebrows shot upward. Finally, something she seemed to be out of the loop on. "No," she admitted.

"Well, that's what he wants to do. You heard him last night. He's got it out for me." He sensed a way in with Echo, but it wasn't through concern for Clarke, because she didn't have any. She did care about him, though, in her own twisted way. That was the angle he had to work. "So even if you don't wanna help Clarke, help me," he implored, feeling like he'd at least hooked her.

"Help you with what?" she said. "Do you even have a plan?"

He had the bare bones of a plan, but he didn't want to have to resort to it. "I can hold my own in a fight," he said confidently. "If I have to. But I don't want it to come to that."

"Why not?" she pressed. "Are you afraid you'll lose? Or are you afraid you'll win?"

He was afraid of both, actually. Challenging Roan in any way was a risk, but even if he beat the guy's ass . . . where did that leave him? What if he killed the guy?

"Help me figure something out," he practically begged. There had to be another way out of this mess.

"What do you expect me to do?" she said.

"You're his girlfriend. You've been his girlfriend for . . . how long now?"

"Six years," she replied.

"Six years." That was a hell of a lot of time to spend with someone. "So if anyone could get through to him, it'd be you."

She sighed heavily, eyes narrowing as she thought about it. "I _might_ be able to help," she said. "But it depends. What's in it for me?"

Of course she wasn't going to do something out of the goodness of her heart—there probably wasn't much goodness that even existed. "What do you want?" he asked her in return.

She didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. As her eyes roamed all over him with undisguised lust, he knew the answer to that question. It was loud and clear.

...

Racing into Grounders, Clarke panted for air. Without a car, she'd had to ride the subway, which was so crowded and kind of disgusting, and she'd gotten off a stop too soon and had ended up running four blocks to get here. She scanned the room for Bellamy, but he wasn't there. Neither was Roan, which was either a good thing or a bad thing. She wasn't sure which.

"Hey, Murphy, is Bellamy here tonight?" she asked when she got to the bar.

"Uh, no," Murphy answered somewhat distractedly as he poured two drinks at once. "No, I'm working for him, actually."

She frowned, not sure where to find him if she couldn't find him here. "Well, do you know where he is?" she asked.

"Not really."

"What does that mean?" She was so afraid he might have agreed to meet Roan somewhere, to settle this whole thing. And this whole thing . . . she felt like it was her fault. So if anything happened to him, that'd be her fault, too.

"It means . . ." Murphy gave the drinks to the customers and then focused all his attention on Clarke, leaning over the counter when he said, "No, I don't know."

She rolled her eyes, not so much annoyed with him as she was stressed by the whole situation.

"But I'll tell you what I do know," he went on. "The two of you are both acting _really_ weird lately."

That was probably an understatement, but one she wasn't about to deny. "There's just a lot going on."

"So I've gathered," Murphy said. "Look, I don't know what's up, but . . . I'm pretty sure he just wants you to be at home right now."

 _Home?_ she thought, confused. Where was that right now? The apartment she shared with Finn, or his place? Everything felt so screwed up.

"Okay. I'll just go then," she said, even though she had no intention of leaving him out here by himself tonight. She had to find him.

When she left the club, she was greeted by the sight of her own car still parked out front, unable to start. That wouldn't do her any good, but racing around this city on foot wouldn't, either. Luckily for her, she had other options.

She crossed the street when there was a slight break in traffic and went into Dropship, hoping that Emori was there. And of course she was. That girl rarely ever quit working.

"Emori," she said, glad to see her.

"Hey." Murphy's girlfriend piled five plates on her hand and expertly carried them towards the kitchen. "Tired of pole-dancing? Wanna come back to this paradise?"

"I need a favor," Clarke blurted, following her. "Can I borrow your car?"

Emori set the plates down on the counter and spun around. "Where you goin'?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted.

Emori gave her a confused look.

"I just need to go somewhere, and mine won't start. But I can bring it back tomorrow, I promise."

It only took Emori a moment to think about it. "Alright," she said, motioning for Clarke to follow her back to the employee's break room. She opened up her locker, grabbed her keys, and tossed them to her. "I'll get a ride home with Murphy," she said. "It's a piece of crap, just so you know."

"Noted. Thanks." Keys in hand, Clarke hurried back out, bypassing all sorts of customers in the restaurant who eyed her lasciviously, probably recognizing her from the scantily-clad posters across the street.

Emori's car was indeed a piece of crap. It chugged along, feeling like it might conk out at any minute, but somehow, it kept going. Clarke drove down many streets, some of which were familiar, others that were completely foreign to her. She knew the chances of just running into Bellamy were slim, though, so at one of many infuriating red lights, she gave him a call.

Voicemail again. Great.

" _Hey, it's Bellamy. Leave a message."_

She groaned frustratedly when the beep sounded. "Bellamy . . . look, I don't know where you're at or what you're doing right now," she said, "but . . . I just have a feeling it's something dangerous, and I don't want you to get hurt. So please . . . _please_ , just call me back and tell me you're on your way home. Bellamy, please." She felt tears sting her eyes as she whimpered, "I can't lose you, too." Wanting to just cry but knowing she couldn't do that right now, she ended the call and tossed her phone into the passenger's seat, on top of fast food wrappers Emori had neglected to get rid of.

The light turned green, and the car sputtered as she pressed the gas pedal to drive forward. She shoved her tears back down, determined not to dissolve into a hysterical mess like she had last night. She needed to find Bellamy. She needed him.

...

Inconspicuously, Bellamy checked his phone. He saw he had another voicemail from Clarke, but he couldn't listen to it right now. He had a text from Murphy, too, which simply said, _Roan's here._

 _Good,_ he thought, grateful for the update. He wanted to know where that guy was at all times tonight.

"Is Clarke checking up on you?" Echo asked almost tauntingly. She'd turned on some seductive R&B music now and was swaying around the lavish living room a glass of champagne in her hand. "God, she's got you whipped. It'd be adorable if I didn't hate her so much."

Bellamy narrowed his eyes at her, pocketing his phone. "Why do you hate her?"

"Because . . ." Echo paused to take a drink. "She just waltzes into this town, this little teenaged slut, and every man who looks at her starts to salivate. All because she can work a pole. It's ridiculous."

"You sound jealous," he noted.

"Jealous? Please," she scoffed. "I've got looks she can only dream of, but I don't have to strip all my clothing off to prove it."

"Doesn't it piss you off that your own boyfriend can't get enough of her, though?" he pressed, meandering towards her. Maybe if he got her feeling pissed at Roan, she'd be more inclined to help him out. "I mean, why would you just sit back and put up with that?"

She shrugged. "Roan wants what we he wants."

"He doesn't want you."

Glaring at him, she growled, "You don't know what you're talking about. Roan loves me."

"Does he now?" He had a hell of a funny way of showing it.

"Yes. That's why he stays with me," she claimed, finishing off her drink. "I'm a good girlfriend for a man like him. I let him have his fun, and I have my own fun with him afterwards." Setting her empty glass atop the fireplace mantle, she closed the distance between them and moved in close, so close that she could hook her fingers into his belt loops. "Between you and me," she said, "he's had a little too much fun here. People are starting to talk, walls are closing in."

 _Then I'll make them close faster,_ Bellamy thought. God, if he could convince Roan to leave town, it'd be the best case scenario.

"You might not understand him or understand our relationship," Echo said, "but it works for us. He _does_ love me. And that's how I know I can help you."

He grabbed her hands, moving them aside. "I'm listening."

She pouted, apparently sad that he wasn't letting her touch him. "A girl like Clarke . . . she's just a conquest. But I'm the one he comes home to every night. If he were to come home tonight and see me in danger or in pain . . . he'll reconsider if this conquest is worth it."

In pain? Danger? He didn't like the sound of that, not even in connection to Echo. "What're you saying?"

She grinned, almost as if she were excited to say, "If you hurt me, he'll stop."

He frowned, shaking his head. "I don't wanna hurt you." He didn't _want_ to hurt anyone. Except for Roan, if it came down to that.

"So threaten me," she said. "That's all Roan ever does. He makes threats. He threatens your safety with Clarke, Clarke's safety with you. So use his own tactics against him. Tell him you'll hurt me; tell him you'll kill me, even. Unless he leaves Clarke alone."

He tried to picture himself saying things like that, doing something like that, and . . . he couldn't. "That's not . . . that's not who I am," he stuttered.

"Well, it's who you'll have to be if you wanna rattle his cage," she said. "See, Roan's the type of guy who's all about the power. Take any of that away from him, make him feel power _less_ for even one second, and you'll make him afraid of you."

 _Power,_ he thought. He'd never had a whole lot of power in his life, but . . . he was an actor. Maybe he could just . . . play the part.

"He's not used to people challenging him, and he's _especially_ not used to people using me in the process," she said. Her eyes lit up when she said, "But I want you to use me."

He rolled his eyes, because it wasn't hard to catch the double meaning of that.

"I'll play along, I promise. I'll act so scared," she vowed. "Scared for my life."

This wasn't the way he wanted to go about this, stooping down to Roan's level. But hell, he'd brought a gun in for a reason, hadn't he? Because he'd always known it might come down to something like this, something dangerous, violent. "Okay," he said, trying to remind himself it wasn't really him. It was a character. He'd just be playing a character.

"Okay?" she repeated. "Just like that? Oh, no, it's not that easy."

"You just said-"

"I _said_ I'll help," she cut in. "If there's something in it for me."

He took a step back, his whole body tensing up. "I don't have any money."

"Good," she said. "Look around. I don't need any."

He didn't look around because . . . he already knew that. He already knew what she was going to say.

"What I need . . . what I _want_. . . is you, Bellamy." She closed the gap between them again, and this time, he didn't move her hands aside when she began to fiddle with his jeans. "For two years now, I've watched you in that club, watched you leave with every girl who isn't me." She popped open the button, licking her lips. "I've imagined your hands all over me, and I've touched myself and thought about you. But I want the real deal." Slowly, she slid his zipper down, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "I want you to fuck me," she told him bluntly. "Hard."

He gulped, trying to think of some other way to go about this. "I'm in love with Clarke," he said, not that he expected that to convince her to back off.

"So?" she said, sliding her hand down into his pants to rub his crotch. "A little sex in exchange for your girlfriend's safety? It's a good deal. You'd be an idiot if you didn't take it. If you didn't take _me_."

God, he didn't want to. Just like his mom probably hadn't wanted to sleep with all those guys she'd brought home over the years. But if it meant putting an end to this whole ordeal for Clarke . . . he could do it. He had to. "I sleep with you, just _once_ . . . you _promise_ you'll help me get Roan to leave Clarke alone?" he said, slowly resigning himself to it.

"I promise," she said. "One good screw, and then I'll have you out of my system." She rubbed and squeezed his length even more, seemingly so determined to get him hard. "Come on, Bellamy," she urged, her voice low and lusty. "Show me what you got."

...

There weren't too many people Clarke could call in New York City. Bellamy, sure, but not when she was trying to _find_ Bellamy. She had very few friends here, but at least she had Harper and the other girls at the club who _might_ be able to help her out.

She called Harper first, and when her friend answered the phone, she sounded so giddy. "Hey, perfect timing," she said. "I just got done talking to Monty. Did you know he's gonna-"

"Harper, do you know where Roan lives?" Clarke cut in, turning on the windshield wipers since it was starting to rain. They squeaked and got stuck about halfway up the windshield, so they were no help.

"What? _Roan?_ " Harper echoed, confused. "Why do you—why do you wanna know where he lives?"

"Because, I think something bad might happen, and I need to stop it," she explained in a rush.

"Clarke, I don't know where he lives," Harper said. "But I _definitely_ know you shouldn't be heading over there. If something's the matter, call Bellamy. He'll know what to do about it."

"No, I can't . . ." Harper just didn't understand what was going on, so there was no need to say more and worry her even further. "I have to go," she said, quickly ending the call. The tears welled up in the bottom of her eyes, making their presence known, making it even harder to see than the rain did. But she kept driving, hoping beyond hope that, somehow, some way, she'd just find him.

...

Bellamy hated this.

"Uh! _Uh_! Oh, yeah," Echo gasped loudly as he pounded into her from behind. "Fuck, yes."

He held her hips steady, moving in and out rhythmically, hoping she'd just cum so this whole thing could be over.

" _Oh,_ god, fuck me, Bellamy!" she screamed, fingers digging into the pillow beneath her head.

 _I am fucking you,_ he thought, a little dazed. _I'm . . . fucking you._ It was worse than sleeping with casting agents or talent scouts, because he knew for a fact that Echo was this horrible person.

"Fuck, your cock . . ." She growled wantonly, circling her ass around, grinding back against his crotch. "Oh, _yes_!"

He wasn't even giving it to her that good, wasn't rubbing his hands all over her the way he would with a girl he actually liked, wasn't saying anything to spur her on. He was just . . . going through the motions. Literally. But in his mind, he was somewhere else. With someone else. Not with Clarke, because . . . no, not with Clarke. But maybe back in high school, with one of his girlfriends back then. Yeah. Sure. High school. That'd been a long time ago. Back then, he hadn't known this was the kind of person he'd grow up to be, the kind who couldn't get a real job and couldn't afford a better apartment, the kind who had to . . . do this.

"Oh! Oh! Uh!" she cried, her face contorting before a loud " _Oh!_ " tore through her, and her pussy clamped down around him. Her body spasmed a bit as she came, and her hips fell forward. Much to his relief, he wasn't inside her anymore.

"Satisfied?" he asked, checking to make sure the gun was still in the back of his jeans. He hadn't taken off any of his clothing, but she'd taken off all of hers before they'd moved up to the bedroom. They were in the bed she actually shared with Roan, which was . . . disturbing.

"No, not yet," she said, smiling dazedly. "Cum on my back."

He groaned inwardly, not even sure he could get himself to that point.

"Come on," she pressured.

He hadn't gotten off on this _at all,_ but he had gotten hard. Just because . . . biology or something. He couldn't control that. Closing his eyes, he jerked himself off as quickly as he could, reminding himself that, the sooner he finished, the sooner he never had to think about this again. It wasn't easy, and he was ashamed to admit that Clarke's face _did_ flash through his mind a few times. But without that, he wouldn't have cum. And that was what Echo wanted.

"Ah . . ." she said, sounding absolutely delighted as he released a small load onto her back. He hated himself for doing it, but hell, it was better than inside of her.

"There," she said. "Now didn't that feel good?"

It hadn't. It _really_ hadn't. He felt disgusted by himself, but there was nothing he could do about it now. "You got what you wanted," he said, zipping his pants back up before he climbed off the bed.

"Mmm," she moaned, "now I kinda want you to fuck me up the ass."

He gave her a sharp look, reminding her, "You said just once." He wasn't about to let her convince him to go again.

"I did," she said, sitting up on her knees. "And I'm too sore for that anyway. You really know how to break a girl open."

He winced.

Spreading her legs for him to see the evidence of her orgasm shining on her thighs, she said, "That . . . was fucking incredible. Or incredible fucking. Whichever."

Swallowing hard, he turned his back to her, not interested in seeing her naked body right now. In fact . . . he was ready for Roan to come back now. Time to put an end to this.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you didn't enjoy it," she teased.

"I didn't," he muttered, wondering what his mom or his sister would have thought of him if they'd known . . . if they'd known he was willing to stoop this low. But then again, he'd always stooped pretty low, hadn't he? He'd slept with women just to try to score acting parts. At least his motivation for this was a little more . . . admirable.

Thankfully, a text distracted him. He pulled out his phone and saw a message from Murphy.

"What?" Echo asked.

He turned back around, happy to see that she was putting a robe on now. Anything to cover her up. "Roan's on his way back," he told her. "You got this?"

She tied the robe around her waist, grinning with satisfaction. "Sure," she said. "I owe you."

Well . . . at least they could agree on that much.

...

Roma didn't know where Roan lived. Neither did Vivian. Murphy didn't even answer her call. The longer Clarke drove, the more hopeless she started to feel. She thought about going back to Grounders to see if either or both of them had shown up. But she tried one more place first: the alley from last night. The one Roan had pulled her into so she could . . . the one where Bellamy had come to save her. And now she felt like she couldn't save him.

He wasn't there, of course. Nobody was. But somebody probably would be, later tonight. Some other girl would let some horrible man convince her to step into the shadows with him, and she probably wouldn't have a Bellamy Blake to come to her rescue.

Clarke pulled the car to a stop, shut it off, and then just started to cry as the rain pelted the window. She cried for Bellamy, for herself. None of this was supposed to have happened here. New York City was supposed to have been an escape from an awful reality, not a brand new nightmare. But this, right now, not knowing what was going on and if he was in danger because of her . . . this was a nightmare, one she desperately wanted to wake up from.

...

Bellamy felt his stomach churn when he saw headlights pull into the driveway outside.

"That's him," Echo said, smearing her makeup to make it look like she'd been crying. "Ready for the performance of a lifetime?"

 _I have to be,_ he thought. He had one shot at this, at getting Roan to listen to him. If he screwed it up, or if Roan sensed for one second that he and Echo had talked about all of this beforehand . . .

"You have to act like you despise me," she reminded him.

Grunting, he muttered, "Shouldn't be too hard."

The front door opened, and in came Roan, head down, eyes on his phone.

"Roan," Echo said. "We have a visitor."

He glanced up, not looking at all alarmed when he saw Bellamy standing in that living room with his girlfriend. "Huh," he grunted casually. "An unwanted one."

"You think I wanna be here?" Bellamy shot back. He would have said more, but . . . he was struck with a feeling. Something wasn't right.

"Roan, he's . . . he's scaring me," Echo sputtered, managing to sound convincingly afraid. "He's not himself. He keeps saying he's gonna hurt me if you don't . . ." She trailed off, casting a curious glance at Bellamy, one he barely noticed because he was too busy narrowing his eyes, trying to see if there was anyone else outside. "What?" she snapped.

He ignored her and spoke to her boyfriend. "You're alone."

Roan smirked.

"Where are those other guys?" he demanded, instantly fearful.

"Oh, you mean my boys? They're out there looking for you," Roan answered smugly. "When we didn't find you at the club, I sent them to your place. Figured they might find you there."

"My place?" he echoed, imagining them breaking in again.

"Wonder if they'll find someone else instead." Roan grinned.

 _Shit,_ he thought, knowing that there was no way Clarke would be ready for them. She was a tough girl, but . . . these two guys had pummeled _him._ What chance did she stand?

 _Play the part,_ he reminded himself, knowing he couldn't show too much fear if he was the one who was trying to make Roan feel afraid. _Play the god-damn part._ On instinct, he pulled the gun out of his jeans, aimed it at his adversary, and yelled, "I'll fuckin' kill you if they lay a hand on her!"

"Oh my god," Echo gasped, taking a step back. "Bellamy!"

Yeah. A gun hadn't been a part of their deal.

"Whoa," Roan said, holding his hands up defensively. "Hold on now."

His hand was shaking, but he tried to steady it, tried not to look as nervous as he actually felt. "Call them up," he ordered. "Tell them to back the hell off right now, or I'll shoot you in the fucking head." The words coming out of his mouth didn't even feel like his own. But they were. They all were.

"I can do that," Roan said, keeping his eyes on Bellamy as he dialed a number. He slowly brought his phone up to his ear, but Bellamy growled, "Speaker phone," needing to hear the conversation for himself.

Roan pressed another button so that everyone could hear. Someone answered unintelligibly, and he said, "Hey, it's me. Change of plans. I don't need you to go over there. He's here."

"Here?" the guy on the other end of the call said. "Need backup?"

Bellamy glared at him, shaking his head.

"No, I got this," Roan said. "It's fine." He ended the call and set his phone down on the arm of the couch. "There you go," he said. "Now why don't you put the gun down?"

God, he wished he could, but that gun was the only source of power he had over this guy right now. And he remembered what Echo had said about power, about taking it from him. "Why don't I point it at her?" he said, switching it up so that he was now aiming it in Echo's direction.

"What're you . . ." She didn't seem to be acting so much as she was _re_ acting. She looked genuinely afraid, and he couldn't blame her for that. "Roan, please," she begged. "Do something."

Roan definitely wasn't the one in control of the situation, but he wasn't about to show his fear like his girlfriend was, either. "What do you want, Bellamy?" he asked.

"What do I _want_?" he resounded. "I want you to leave Clarke the hell alone. And leave me alone while you're at it. I don't wanna see you anywhere near the club; I _especially_ don't wanna see you anywhere near her. From now on, she doesn't exist to you. Got it?"

Roan sighed heavily, looking down at the floor momentarily as if he were contemplating it. "And if I don't agree to that?" he asked, lifting his head.

"Roan!" Echo shrieked.

"Well, then your girlfriend doesn't exist, either," Bellamy threatened, even though he had no intention of going through with it. "You hurt someone I love, I hurt someone you love. That's the way it works."

Still, despite all of this, Roan was reluctant to back down. "You wouldn't pull that trigger," he said.

"In case you haven't noticed, there isn't anything I wouldn't do for her." Bellamy felt his eyes grow wide with desperation as the reality of that sunk in. He didn't _want_ to hurt anyone, but if it came down to it . . . if that was the only thing that would get through to Roan . . . "If you ever lay a hand on Clarke again . . . it'll be the last thing you do," he warned.

"Roan, please," Echo whimpered again. "He's not kidding. He's gonna hurt me."

 _Am I?_ he wondered. No, he wouldn't hurt Echo, not even after everything she'd made him do tonight. But he'd hurt Roan if that was what it took.

"Please, let's just . . . let's just forget about things here, okay?" Echo implored desperately. "It's getting too out of control. We could leave. We could go back to Boston. You always said you wanted to go back to Boston."

 _Boston,_ Bellamy thought. Yeah, Boston sounded good. Far enough away that he and Clarke could move on with their lives without constantly worrying about him lurking over their shoulders.

"I'm not gonna let this little bitch intimidate me into leaving," Roan grumbled.

On impulse, Bellamy grabbed Echo, pulling her in so close, he could nearly press the gun to her temple. "Who's the bitch now?" he growled.

"Roan!" Echo cried.

"Okay, stop! Stop!" Roan shouted, finally moving forward. "Let her go."

Bellamy genuinely felt bad about the way she was trembling. She wasn't a nice person, and she'd quite literally had her way with him tonight, but she was one of Roan's victims, too. She was probably terrified to ever leave him.

Slowly, Bellamy let go of her, pointing the gun back at Roan instead. "Have I made myself clear tonight?" he roared. "Or do I need to say more?"

"No," Roan said. "You're clear." Glancing at his girlfriend, he nodded once. "Boston."

"I miss it there," she whispered.

Slowly, he continued nodding as he thought it over. "Boston could work."

Bellamy wasn't about to lower that gun, though, not until he heard more.

"Fine. You got a deal," Roan declared.

"Say it." He wouldn't believe it unless he heard it.

Sighing heavily, Roan swallowed his pride and said, "I won't ever do anything bad to your little whore ever again."

"What'd you call her?" he roared, waving the gun angrily. No one _ever_ used that word with Clarke. Ever.

"I won't ever do anything to Clarke . . . _ever_ again," Roan promised.

"And you'll leave me alone, too?" Bellamy said.

"Yes."

"Because if you don't . . . I'm not afraid to use this." He was, though. He was _so_ afraid. Of everything in that moment. Roan, himself . . .

"I understand," Roan said, still holding his hands up as he sidled past Bellamy. Bellamy kept the gun trained on him as he walked towards the door.

"Oh, Roan . . ." Echo said, throwing herself into his arms when he was close enough. He hugged her, telling her it was going to be fine, that they were fine, that they had nothing to worry about. She pressed her cheek against his chest and glanced over at Bellamy, making eye contact. She grinned mischievously, and he knew that whatever fear she may have been feeling had vanished. She was loving every second of this, being involved in a secret with Bellamy, having the full attention and concern of her boyfriend for once . . . This probably _was_ a fantasy to her, twisted as it was.

He kept the gun pointed at them until he ran out the door. And then, he didn't hesitate. He raced down the street to his car, threw himself inside, dropped the gun on the seat, and started the car up quickly. He backed up down the street, whipped an illegal turn, and took off as fast as he could. He needed to get out of there, because he wasn't okay. But he needed to get home to make sure Clarke was.


	36. Chapter 36

_Chapter 36_

Clarke felt like she'd failed when she got back to Bellamy's apartment without him. She couldn't reach him, couldn't find him. God only knew what was happening to him out there right now. Because of her. Because of the _stupid_ choices she'd made to try to keep him safe.

This was New York City. She should have known she couldn't keep him safe here. She couldn't even keep herself safe. So yeah. She'd failed.

She dumped Emori's car keys on the counter and slinked over to the couch, picking the remote up off the arm of it. She turned off the TV, and without the light from that illuminating the room, she was surrounded in darkness. She sat down on the arm of the couch and started to cry again, feeling so pathetic, so useless. Bellamy was probably out there getting beat up right now, maybe even worse, all in the name of trying to protect her. And here she was, safe inside _his_ apartment, without him.

 _I could call the police,_ she thought, feeling like a moron for not thinking of that sooner. Maybe they'd agree to go out to Roan's house or something. Maybe. It was better than just sitting here doing nothing.

The tears stopped flowing in an instant, and her whole body startled when the door opened. And in he came.

"Bellamy!" she cried, running towards him. She threw her arms around him, _completely_ and utterly relieved, and hugged him tight. "Oh my god," she gasped, thankful to see him standing and without any visible injuries. "You're okay."

He hugged her back for a few seconds, rocking her from side to side. "Are you?" he asked.

"Yeah." She pulled back a bit, staying close enough to keep her arms around him, though, close enough that his hands could still rest on her waist. "I was so worried about you, though," she confessed quietly. "I went to Grounders, and then I drove all around . . . but I couldn't find you. And I was just _so_ worried."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, looking her straight in the eye. But as he started to say more, he looked down at the floor instead, averting all eye contact. "I had to . . . do something."

Well, that sounded all nice and ominous. Her stomach started to knot up with concern again. "Where were you?" she asked.

He shook his head, letting go of her. "It doesn't matter."

It _did,_ though. She knew it did. "Were you with Roan?" she asked.

Without answering, he turned on the light above his stove, and she was able to see just how tense he looked. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his hands gripped the counter so hard, his knuckles turned white.

"What, did you go to, like, fight him or something?" she guessed. Because if he had, she would have suspected some cuts and scrapes and bruises at the very least. But his hands were perfectly clean.

"No," he answered, turned away from her. "I just wanted to get him to leave you alone. So I went over to his place."

That was what she figured. It couldn't have been so simple as just sitting down and talking to the guy, though. Roan didn't communicate that way. With him, it was all about aggression. "What'd you do?" she questioned.

He gulped, then replied, "I threatened him, said I'd kill him if he ever laid a hand on you again."

She inhaled sharply. Did he . . . did he actually mean that?

"And I . . ." He trailed off, pressing his lips together tightly momentarily. Shaking his head, he muttered, "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Bellamy . . ." She moved in close behind him, putting one hand on his shoulders, feeling how tense his back muscles were. "That's too dangerous," she said. "You can't go confront him on your own like that."

"I already did," he said, spinning around. "And I'm fine."

She frowned. "You're not _fine_. You look like . . ." She studied him intently, not sure what to make of that look in his eyes. He didn't look violent or aggressive or menacing the way Roan did. He looked . . . sort of haunted. Like something had happened tonight that would stick with him for a long time. "I don't even know what you look like," she said, "but you don't look like yourself."

"That's because I _wasn't_ myself tonight," he claimed, and then lowering his head, almost as if in shame, he mumbled, "I . . . I played the part."

"What do you mean?" she spat, fed up with how damn vague he was being. "Bellamy, what're you-" Before she could even get the whole question out, he reached into the back of his jeans and pulled out something she never thought she'd see up close and in person: a gun. "Oh my god," she whispered, stunned as he set it down on the counter.

"It's a prop," he blurted quickly.

"What?" Her mind could barely even register words, and she couldn't look away from the thing.

"It's a prop," he repeated. "I took it off a movie set three years ago. It's not a real gun."

Her eyes widened in shock as she looked first at the weapon—fake weapon—and then up at him.

"Roan thought it was real, though," he told her, "so it worked."

She pictured him pointing that thing at Roan and 'playing the part,' as he'd phrased it, and . . . it just made her head spin. "You mean you just waltzed into Roan's house waving a fake gun around?" she said, floored by how far he'd gone for her. "Are you crazy?"

"Maybe," he said with a small shrug. "I even pointed it at him. And Echo." He flinched.

"Echo was there?"

Again, he averted his eyes. "Yeah."

"Oh my god." She hauled in several short, shaky breaths, struggling to calm herself down. "What if they call the cops on you, Bellamy?"

"They won't," he said, sounding sure. "They can't risk any of the shit Roan's done coming to light." He sighed heavily. "No, they were scared. _I_ scared them." He didn't exactly sound proud of that last part.

"So . . . what, Roan's just gonna leave me alone now?" She hated that it had come to this, but if it worked then . . . then maybe it was worth it.

"I hope so." Bellamy shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning back against the counter. "He said something about Boston. Going back to Boston. Said he'd leave me alone, too. Echo kind of . . . helped convince him." He shook his head forlornly.

"Because she was afraid?" Clarke was still trying to fill in what seemed very much like missing gaps of this story.

"Something like that," he muttered.

"What does that mean?" There was obviously something he wasn't telling her, and she felt like she needed to know. He'd done all this _for her_ , after all.

"It means . . ." He eased past her and started pacing a bit. "Don't worry about what it means, Clarke."

When he was acting like this, though, how could she _not_ worry? "But-"

"She wanted . . ." he cut back in, but then he didn't finish. Raking one hand through his unruly hair, he summarized everything he _wasn't_ saying with, "Look, I did what I had to do. Alright? It's worth it."

What he'd _had_ to do? "I don't understand," she said, staring at him desperately, wishing he would just _tell_ her.

"Trust me, you don't want to."

"Bellamy, just-"

"No, Clarke . . ." he interrupted again. This time, he came to stand right in front of her, and he grabbed both her shoulders with his large, strong hands. "I love you, okay? I would do anything _for you_. Enough said."

It wasn't enough said, though. Not by a long shot. "What did Echo want?" she pressed, afraid of where this was going.

"Nothing," he said dismissively.

She didn't know that girl well by any means, but she _did_ know something that would . . . make sense. "You?" she guessed sadly. "She wanted you?"

He didn't say anything. But the silence pretty much said it all.

 _Oh god,_ she thought, finally understanding. "You slept with her?"

Slowly, he took his hands off of her, and he took a step back. "I didn't wanna have to take that gun out," he said. "I didn't wanna . . ." Swallowing hard, he admitted, "I didn't want it to come to that."

Tears stung her eyes as she looked back at the gun, then again at him. At _Bellamy._ At the man who had become her best friend since she'd moved to this city. More than that.

"So I thought maybe she could convince him to let up on you," he explained, "and she said she could, she _would_ , if . . ." He trailed off, shrugging sadly. "Yeah, I slept with her."

Her whole chest clenched, like someone had a vice grip on her heart as she let that one whirl around in her mind. "Oh my god, Bellamy." This whole thing had probably been leading up to her having to sleep with Roan, because he wouldn't have stopped. And as chilling as the thought of that was, knowing that Bellamy had basically done the same thing with Echo . . . it made her feel sick to her stomach. _This is all my fault,_ she thought. If she'd never have come here, never become such a big part of his life . . .

As if he could tell how guilty she was feeling, he reached out and touched her cheek, using his thumb to wipe away some tears she hadn't even realized had spilled over. "No, it's . . . I had a choice, alright?" he told her. "I made it. Don't feel bad for me."

"I feel horrible," she whimpered. He could call it a choice all he wanted to, but it wasn't a choice. It was . . . coercion. Pressure. She knew the feeling all too well.

"No, don't," he said. "I don't want you feeling guilty about any of this. It's like I said, I did what I had to do."

"No, you didn't have to. You just said it, Bellamy, you _chose_ to," she said. "For me."

He didn't deny that. He couldn't, not when it was so obvious.

"I . . . I'm so sorry," she choked out, hating that, when she'd needed someone to save her from Roan, he'd been there. But she hadn't been there for him. She'd driven all around this city tonight, gotten lost more times than she could reasonably count, and she hadn't even come close to saving him.

"Better me than you," he claimed.

She shook her head stubbornly. Just because he was a guy, that didn't mean anything about this was _better_. He'd still done something tonight that he didn't want to do. All so that she wouldn't have to.

"I took out the gun when he told me there were two guys on their way here, though," he said. "I thought you were . . ." He sighed heavily, shaking his head once again. "I couldn't risk them barging in here and hurting you. I couldn't risk it."

In that case . . . she was kind of glad she'd driven around and gotten lost then. The thought of being here alone when Bellamy's would-be attackers showed up terrified her. "Are we even safe here?" she asked, all the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end now.

"We are now," he said.

She shivered.

"Hey, listen . . ." He stroked her hair lovingly, his touch incredibly soft for someone who had forced himself to be so harsh tonight. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, alright?"

She tried to smile gratefully, but it was more of a sad grimace. "You shouldn't have to do this," she said. "You shouldn't have to protect me. I'm supposed to be brave, right? The brave, badass princess?" Her bottom lip trembled as more tears fell down her cheeks. "I don't feel brave. I feel . . . god, I feel lost."

He surprised her then, because even after everything he'd been through tonight, he didn't say he felt the same. In fact . . . "I don't," he said, looking straight into her eyes again.

How did he not, though? After everything he'd done tonight, everything he'd been through . . . he _had_ to be feeling at least a little bit lost, just like she was. He just wasn't admitting it, because he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

Looping her arms around his neck, she hugged him again, pressing her face against his shoulder, dampening his shirt with her tears. His hands wound around her waist and splayed against her back, all warm and soothing and more than she probably deserved. He buried his face in her hair, and they just stood like that, holding each other much in the same way they had that night in the hotel. Things had been simpler then, a lot simpler than they were now. But they held each other all the same.

...

It wasn't a shrill ring that woke Clarke up the next morning, but rather a low vibration. It was such a quiet noise that she was almost tempted to ignore it. Almost.

As she struggled to open her eyes, she felt . . . different. The pillow beneath her head wasn't her pillow, wasn't a pillow _at all_ , actually. It was Bellamy. Her cheek was on his chest, and one of his arms was around her. She was completely curled up against him and felt very warm, even though they weren't lying underneath any blankets.

Bellamy didn't stir, and she was pretty sure it was his phone making the noise. Carefully, she rolled over onto her back and reached over to grab his phone off the night stand. The screen said Octavia was calling. Clarke wasn't sure if she should answer it or not, but she was sure it was going to kick onto voicemail at any minute. Beside her, Bellamy was still sleeping soundly, so she went ahead and took the call for him.

"Hey, Octavia," she said quietly.

"Who is this?" Octavia demanded. "Clarke?"

"Yeah, hey." She sat up slowly, hoping she this noise and movement wouldn't disturb him.

"You're answering my brother's phone now?"

She yawned and said, "No, he's just asleep."

"Oh, so you're sleeping with him now." Octavia didn't even phrase it as a question. Just a statement.

"No," she said, but when she looked down at his sleeping form . . . that was kind of a lie, wasn't it? "Not exactly." She didn't even remember climbing into that bed with him, let alone curling up with him and falling asleep. She _did_ remember sitting down on the couch with him and crying for a little while, mostly because she felt awful about what he'd done for her last night. And she remembered how he'd kept reassuring her that it was okay, that he was okay, and that everything would be okay. She must have nodded off there, and then he must have carried her over to the bed.

"Look, I don't wanna wake him up, so just let me go out to the hall, okay?" she whispered, sliding out of bed.

"Did you wear him out last night?" Octavia teased.

"Seriously?"

"What? I'm just saying, if you two aren't dating by now, you really should be."

Clarke quietly opened the door and slipped into the hallway, cringing as she shut the door again, because it made a louder clicking sound than she would have liked. "Do you want me to have him call you back?" she asked.

"No, just . . . just tell him Mom and I talked last night," Octavia said. "We're gonna put in my enrollment deposit for LSU next week. After she gets paid."

 _LSU?_ Clarke registered. Bellamy's sister was going to college then. "Oh, Octavia . . . congratulations," she said, genuinely happy for her. "That's great." And this was just the kind of good news Bellamy would need to hear. He'd dealt with so much crap lately.

"Yeah, kind of exciting," Octavia said, probably downplaying her own excitement about the whole thing. "Anyway, I knew he'd be excited, too, so . . . I just wanted to let him know. He doesn't have to call me back or anything. Unless he wants to. If you guys aren't too busy . . . getting busy."

Clarke rolled her eyes. "We're not . . ." But before she could deny it _yet again_ , she heard someone coming down the hallway, and when she looked to the left, she was stunned to see Echo striding toward her, all intimidating and confident, a satisfied smirk on her face. "Octavia, I think I'm gonna have to go now," she said.

"See? Like I said, getting busy."

"Congrats again." She hastily ended the call, pocketed Bellamy's phone, and crossed her arms over her chest. "What do you want?"

Echo came to a stop right in front of her and said, "To see our lover boy one last time."

"He's not home," Clarke lied.

"Then why are you standing in front of that door like a protective little Pitbull?"

 _Dammit,_ she thought, frustrated. After everything Bellamy had done last night to keep Roan away from her, the least she could do was keep Echo away from him now. "He doesn't wanna see you," she said.

Echo looked her up and down, laughing a bit as if she found this amusing. "Look at you. So brave," she said. "Are you gonna pull a gun on me, too, or is that strictly a Bellamy move?"

She shifted uncomfortably, sort of wishing she had that prop gun right now. If nothing else, _that_ would've probably been enough to make Echo go away.

"I know he never would've pulled the trigger," she said. "Actually, it kind of turned me on to see him fly off the handle like that."

This chick was so thirsty for Bellamy, all he had to do was _exist_ to turn her on. "Echo, the sooner you and Roan leave, the better off we'll all be," Clarke said, not budging, unwilling to move a muscle.

"Relax, I'm right there with you on that one." Echo sighed heavily, rolling her eyes. "Roan . . . he'll never admit it, but he got in over his head with Ontari, and he's gonna wind up in a hell of a mess with you if he doesn't quit now," Echo admitted. "And my loyalty always lies with him. So as much as I will miss a certain sexy bartender, I'm happy to go back to Boston if it means saving Roan from himself."

 _Good,_ Clarke thought, feeling some of her nerves recede just a little bit. It sounded like they were actually going to leave, like they hadn't just been blowing smoke up Bellamy's ass last night. Crazy as it was to believe . . . maybe they actually would keep their word.

"Although . . ." Echo moved in closer, that same sadistic look in her eyes that her boyfriend possessed. "I _will_ still think about Bellamy a lot. Certain parts of him, especially."

Clarke shifted uncomfortably. She didn't want to hear this. Not because she was jealous, but because she was . . . ashamed. Ashamed that she couldn't take care of herself, and he'd had to resort to such drastic measures just to take care of her.

"Has he put it to you yet?" Echo brazenly asked. Her silence must have been answer enough, because she laughed and promised, "Oh, trust me, you're in for a treat. He knows how to give it good. My legs are _still_ shaking."

The thought of Bellamy having sex with someone like Echo, not because he wanted to but because he felt like he had to . . . it tore Clarke up inside. And Echo probably knew that.

"Why don't you tell him I said that?" Echo suggested. "And tell him, from now on, every time I touch myself, I'll think of him." She grinned cruelly, spun, and walked back down the hall, equally as confident and intimidating as she'd been when she'd just shown up. A girl like that . . . she'd go to Boston and continue living this life she'd chosen for herself. She'd probably find some new guy to fixate on while Roan found a new strip club to frequent.

 _Good riddance,_ Clarke thought, hoping she never saw either one of them ever again. They were both horrible human beings, and they deserved each other.

She'd been so caught up in that hostile conversation that it actually surprised her to see the door to her _own_ apartment open. Out came Finn, hair halfway covering his face. When he saw her standing there, he pushed it out of his eyes and said, "Oh, hey."

She tensed up all over again, but for a different reason this time. "Hey." She wasn't sure what else to say to him, and she didn't make any move to go hug him or anything like that. This wasn't . .. this wasn't just _Finn_ anymore. This was a guy who had cheated on her, and God only knew how many times he'd done it.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in . . . a while," Finn said.

"I know," she said, amazed at how awkward this all felt. "I've just been . . . busy."

"Me, too."

She almost lost it on him right then and there. He'd been _busy_? Is that what he called sleeping with Raven? _Busy?_ Did they ever even actually get any work done together, or did they just spend all their time fucking? God, what if this had been going on for weeks or months right underneath her nose?

"Were you . . . were you over at Bellamy's?" he inquired curiously.

 _Damn right,_ she wanted to say. But she held back. "Well, I went to check on him this morning," she fibbed. "He had a rough night."

"Is he alright?"

No, he wasn't. But Finn probably didn't really give a damn about him anyway. "He'll be fine," she said.

"Are _you_ alright?" He took a few steps towards her, not close enough to reach out and lay a hand on her, though. "You look kinda . . ."

 _Traumatized?_ she thought. _Horrified? Overwhelmed? Take your pick._

But instead of _actually_ using one of those words and taking an interest in how she was feeling, he said, "I mean, you look fine, but . . ."

"Actually, I've—I've been kinda stressed," she cut in. "The car's not working. It's parked out at Grounders right now. Maybe you could take a look at it."

"Yeah, I could do that," he said. " Grab your shoes. Let's go."

 _Let's go?_ She didn't want to go with him. That had been a hint for him to go _on his own_ and get the car running again. But if nothing else . . . maybe they could go for a drive afterward, clear the air. She could tell him what she knew, and she could tell him how heartbroken and pissed off she was about it. That wasn't the type of conversation for the hallway, but maybe it was the type of talk they could have on the open road.

She had to put Bellamy's phone back before she left, and she was happy to see he'd rolled over onto his side and was still sleeping. She wouldn't have blamed him if he decided to sleep all day. He deserved to.

Finn tried to make small talk on the drive to Grounders, but she wasn't biting. She nodded once in a while, said things like, "Hmm," and "Yeah," but she didn't actually _converse_. At one point, she just tuned him out completely and started thinking about how Bellamy would react when he woke up and didn't find her there. She didn't want him to worry, so while Finn droned on and on about this new ad campaign they had him shooting at work, she texted Bellamy that she'd had to leave early, but she assured him she'd see him later.

Whatever had been preventing her car from starting must not have been a difficult problem to fix. Finn worked around underneath the hood for a couple of minutes, then got in and started it up without problem.

"You fixed it," she said, wishing it were that easy for him to fix . . . other problems.

"Of course," he said boastfully, getting out. "Care to know what was wrong with it?"

"Not really." Cars were a foreign thing to her. She didn't need to know _how_ they ran. She just needed them to get her from place to place.

"Shouldn't be anything too serious," he said, shutting the hood. "It's just an old car. It quits running sometimes, especially in the winter. You should drive it more."

She felt like she _did_ drive it enough, but whatever. "How's your car been working out?" she asked.

"Good," he said. "It's good. I like it."

"Yeah." He'd better like it. He'd sure as hell spent enough money on it. "I'm sure it's nice to be able to have something flashy and new," she said, thinking of Raven more than the car, "especially when you've had the same thing for such a long time."

"Yep," he said, "it's a good ride."

Oh god, did he even hear himself? She wanted to lash out at him so badly.

"Hey, listen, Clarke, I think . . . I think we should make some time for each other tonight," he suggested suddenly, and he actually looked . . . serious. "I have to work today, but my evening's free, so maybe we could have dinner and just . . . you know, talk about some things?"

 _Talk,_ she registered. _About some things._ Well, that sounded lovely. If she hadn't already known what things they needed to talk about, she would have been worried. "Okay," she said.

"Okay." He nodded, then gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and said, "I'll see you later," before he got in his car and took off.

 _A shoulder squeeze,_ she thought. _Not a goodbye kiss, not even a hug._ She wasn't really surprised, but still . . .

It wasn't fun feeling like she meant so little to him.

...

Bellamy blew off an audition that afternoon, knowing he was in no condition to get up in front of casting directors and give his best. Besides, it was one of those male heartthrob roles that would probably require him to strip down to his underwear during the audition. He wasn't in the mood to be treated like a piece of meat today.

Waking up without Clarke next to him had been a bit of a letdown, but it wasn't hard to find her. She was at Grounders when he walked in, sitting at one of the tables, looking tired as she watched Harper rehearse a routine with Luna up onstage.

"You know, you could've told me you were leaving," he said, sitting down beside her.

"Sorry," she said. "I texted you."

Yeah, he'd gotten that text, but he still would have loved to have gotten to talk to her that morning, just to make sure she was doing alright. She'd been in rough shape last night, going on and on about how she felt like this whole thing was her fault. He didn't want her blaming herself for what he'd done with Echo last night. It'd been his decision, his choice. And he didn't regret it.

"Oh, Octavia called," she told him. "She says they're putting in her enrollment deposit for LSU after your mom gets paid."

 _LSU,_ he thought, remembering what it had been like to tour that campus back in high school. Octavia wasn't the world's most diligent student by any means, but hopefully she'd do well there. Ilian could help keep her on track, and . . . it'd just be a good fit for the both of them. "Good," he said, grateful for a little bit of good news. Even if his own life was a mess, at least things were going well for his little sister. And his mother apparently hadn't fallen off the wagon yet, so . . . maybe it'd stick this time. Maybe she'd be okay, too.

"Are you supposed to be rehearsing?" he asked Clarke, not sure why else she'd be hanging out there.

"After Harper gets done," she said. Looking down at her lap, she mumbled, "I don't even wanna dance tomorrow night."

"So don't," he suggested. It was that simple.

"I have to."

"No, you don't." She didn't _have_ to do anything she didn't want to do. _Anything._

"I wanna get back to normal," she said. "This is . . . normal for me. Besides, it'll be better without . . . you know, without Roan here."

Although he still didn't like the thought of Clarke being a stripper here . . . "Yeah," he admitted. Not having Roan around would be a major plus.

They sat together in comfortable silence for a bit before she just blurted out, "I think Finn's gonna break up with me."

Oh, yeah. Finn. That douchebag was still in the picture. Hopefully not for long, though. Bellamy couldn't wait for Clarke to be done with him. "Did you see him this morning?" he asked her.

"Yeah. He says he wants to talk tonight. We all know what that means."

"Isn't that a good thing, though?" Maybe it was naive of him, but he'd almost expected her to be more relieved than she was sad. After all, she'd seen what an unbelievable jackass he was with her own two eyes. Hell, maybe she should just beat him to the punch and be the one to break up with him. "You deserve someone better. You know that, right?"

"I know," she said. "But I can't stand the thought of losing somebody else. First my parents, now Finn . . ." She shook her head sorrowfully. "It seems like everyone I love eventually just stops loving me."

He'd never heard Clarke talk like that before, and he didn't like it. "I won't," he promised her. Maybe it sounded cheesy, but . . . it was true. There were only a handful of people in this world he could honestly say he _loved_ , and she was one of them now. Nothing was ever gonna change that.

Despite how sad she obviously was, a small smile found its way to her lips. God, he wanted to kiss her so bad. But he couldn't. Not yet.

"Clarke, you're up," Harper announced as she stepped down off the stage. "Hey, Bellamy," she said before heading over to the bar, probably to pour herself a drink.

"Hey," he said, reluctantly standing up when Clarke did. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't watch." He didn't want to distract her or anything.

"What if I want you to?" she asked quietly, meeting his eyes for just a second before she headed up on stage to join Luna.

She wanted him to watch her? It was so tempting. But . . . it was _too_ tempting. Once Finn was out of the picture and all this stuff with Roan and Echo wasn't so fresh . . . once he was _sure_ she wanted him like he wanted her, then he wouldn't be able to resist.

...

Finn had told her 6:00, but Clarke knew that actually meant 6:30. He claimed to have reservations at some nice restaurant, but how could he have gotten reservations on such short notice? He must have been planning on taking Raven or something, but he'd probably decided to use the fancy dinner on her instead. It was harder to erupt and cause a scene at a nice restaurant than it would have been at home.

Once 6:30 passed, Clarke was fed up with waiting. She got in her car and drove to Finn's office, ignoring the horrible sense of _déjà vu._ Would she walk in on him and Raven again? Possibly. She braced herself for it.

Standing near the door, she quickly _heard_ Raven. She sounded angry as she ground out, "Oh my god, Finn, you _can't_ be serious. I trusted you!"

"You can still trust me!" was Finn's pitiful response.

Clarke rolled her eyes at that and kept eavesdropping.

"How can I?" Raven spat. "You lied to me!"

"I didn't lie."

Clarke frowned. He'd lied? To _Raven?_ Something wasn't adding up.

"You told me it was over between you and Clarke!" Raven went on yelling. "You said you broke up with her. That's the only reason why I-"

"That's _not_ the only reason," Finn cut in heatedly. "You have feelings for me."

"Yes, but I wouldn't have acted on them if I'd known you were still . . ." Raven trailed off, then growled exasperatedly. "God, I'm the other woman now. I can't believe you would do this to me. And to Clarke."

 _Oh my god,_ she thought, a new reality sinking in. Raven wasn't some co-conspirator in a scandalous affair. Finn had tricked her, too. In an instant, Clarke felt less animosity towards her and more . . . sympathy. Raven was right. Neither one of them deserved this.

"I didn't mean to hurt either one of you, I swear," Finn insisted. "It's just . . . it's not so easy for me to break up with her, okay? She's been my girlfriend for years now."

 _He didn't say he loves me,_ Clarke noticed. Maybe that meant he didn't.

"I thought you wanted me to be your girlfriend." Poor Raven. She sounded like she was crying now.

"I do."

"Well, make up your damn mind, Finn, because you can't have both of us. I refuse to be a part of something like that. I'm not gonna be your little plaything whenever you're bored with her. I'm not gonna just stand back and let you have your cake and eat it, too. God, you're such a jerk!"

"Raven-"

"No, don't even try to apologize!" Raven screamed at him. "I'm not listening, okay? I shouldn't have ever listened to anything you had to say. You're the reason why we're in this mess!"

Leaning against the door too hard caused it to squeak, and Clarke basically gave away her own cover and had to let herself into the office.

"Clarke . . ." Finn looked shocked and horrified to see her standing there.

"Oh . . . hey, Clarke," Raven said, obviously trying her best to sound pleasant to her.

"Hi." She glanced back and forth between the two of them, noting how tense they both were and how neither one of them was looking at the other. It all seemed so obvious now. Why had she been so willingly blind to it before? "Sorry," she said softly, "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, it's fine," Raven said. "We were just . . . arguing about this upcoming project we're supposed to do together, but you know what, Finn? I really don't think we're seeing eye to eye on things anymore, and it's probably in this company's best interest if we just go our separate ways and leave each other alone."

God, it was like watching a train wreck. Clarke couldn't help but delight in that flash of hurt in Finn's eyes when he heard that.

"Raven . . ." he said, but she wasn't about to hear it. She stomped out of the office, offering a quiet, "Excuse me," to Clarke as she bumped past her.

Standing there alone with her boyfriend, she wondered how much he was going to reveal to her right now. Was he going to tell her the whole truth? Or just a part of it? Maybe he'd say he and Raven had kissed, or that he had feelings for her. Maybe he wouldn't reveal that they'd actually had sex, in which case, she'd get to drop the bomb on him that she already knew.

"How much of that did you hear?" he asked her.

She could have told him the truth, but . . . if there was even a possibility that he might try to lie to her tonight, why not beat him to the punch and lie first? "Not much," she said. "What're you guys fighting about?"

Going along with Raven's story, he answered, "Just this project, like she said." He sighed, closed his computer, and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. "You ready to go to dinner?"

Ugh, she wasn't even hungry, and if the restaurant was as fancy as he'd made it sound, it probably only served caviar and stuff. "You still want to?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. Putting one hand on her shoulders, he led her towards the door. "Let's go."

 _Caviar, here I come,_ she thought, disgruntled. Why draw out the inevitable? If he was going to break up with her, couldn't he at least have the decency to do it privately?

Clarke couldn't pronounce the name of the restaurant they ended up at, nor did she care to, because it wasn't like she'd ever go there again. Apparently Finn had gone there before with Cage and some other people for work. Such great company.

"This place is really nice, huh?" he said as he finished off his . . . salmon or catfish or whatever the hell it was.

"Yeah," Clarke agreed, picking around her plate. "I don't even know what I'm eating." She'd just pointed to something on the menu and told the waiter it would do.

"We should do this more, go out and have dinner," Finn proposed. "We should go on more dates."

More _dates?_ she thought, confused. He was really laying it on thick before calling things off, huh? "You're always working," she pointed out.

"I know," he admitted. Sighing heavily, he set his fork down, rubbed his forehead, and apologized, "I'm sorry, Clarke."

She frowned. "For what?" There was a huge difference between an apology for working so much and an apology for working up a sweat with Raven.

"Just . . . a lot of things," he answered vaguely. "You've been so patient and understanding with me, but I probably don't even deserve it."

He definitely didn't, but she played dumb anyway. "Why would you say that?"

"Because I haven't been the boyfriend you deserve." He wiped underneath his eye, but Clarke couldn't tell if he was really crying or just fake crying. "We came here together with all these great ideas about how it was gonna be, but I've been so wrapped up with my job that I haven't even really been there for you. At all."

Pouting, Clarke looked down at the disgusting food on her plate. He really hadn't been. And she'd just put up with it.

"I mean, yesterday, we didn't even see each other," he went on regretfully. "And I know you've said you feel like we're drifting apart, and I feel that, too, but I don't know what to do about it."

 _Stop sleeping with other girls, for starters,_ she thought bitterly. But for some reason, the only pitiful words that came out of her mouth were, "Are you breaking up with me?"

Finn's response surprised her. "No. No, not at all."

 _What?_ she wondered, less prepared for this than she would have been for a split. _What?_

"I don't wanna break up with you, Clarke," he said, scooting his whole chair closer to hers. "I love you. More than anything. You know that, don't you?"

 _More than anything?_ Really, she wasn't falling for that. If he loved her so damn much, he never would have cheated on her, never would have thought about breaking up with her. That wasn't the kind of love she wanted, or the kind she deserved.

"I mean, I wouldn't blame you if you doubt it right now, though," he said. "I haven't exactly treated you like a princess."

She looked away sharply, hating the sound of that nickname on his lips right now. It was different when Bellamy said it, because . . . he just _made_ it different. But it didn't seem so adorable or endearing to hear Finn say it anymore.

"But I'm gonna do better, I promise," he swore to her, reaching out to hold her hand and give it an assuring squeeze. "I'm gonna spend more time with you. I'm gonna come watch you perform and take you to dinner more. I'm gonna be more involved in everything you've got going on."

Everything? Considering the fact that she definitely had something going on with Bellamy . . . that really wasn't necessary. "You don't have to," she said.

"No, I want to," he insisted. "I wanna remind you why you ever started dating me in the first place." A hopeful smile found its way to his face. "You're the love of my life. And I don't wanna lose you."

She stared at him uncertainly, not sure what to do or . . . even what to think in that moment. She couldn't even remember the last time Finn had professed his feelings like that. Hell, the first time he'd ever told her he loved her, he'd been drunk. But now he was sitting here saying she was the love of his life, and . . . she just wasn't sure he was hers. How could he be if she questioned and doubted every word he was saying? And besides . . .

What about Bellamy?


	37. Chapter 37

_Chapter 37_

Although there was a casting call just a few blocks away Bellamy _could_ have gone to . . . he didn't. Instead, he slept in, and when he woke up, he ignored the texts from Pike reminding him to go audition. Pike wasn't his agent anymore, so he was about to just block his number. Besides, it wasn't some amazing part anyway. It was for a commercial. A commercial for some kind of cleaning product. Not exactly the dream role he was on the lookout for.

He stepped out onto his balcony, wishing he had a cigarette but knowing he couldn't go out and buy a pack or he'd end up having to quit all over again. Luckily, thoughts of smoking didn't occupy his mind for long, because when he looked over to Clarke's balcony, he found her sitting out there, legs dangling over the ledge, hands gripping the iron rails.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked her. She had a sweatshirt and jeans, but it was more like winter coat weather out there.

"I needed some fresh air," she said, staring aimlessly across the street.

"Well, you won't find any of that here." If he ever stepped out on that balcony and _didn't_ smell sewage and trash, he'd throw a damn parade. The neighborhood just wasn't a good one, but he'd gotten used to it. Apparently she had, too.

Climbing over his railing, he stepped out carefully onto the ledge, and crept across to her balcony. "I take it you ended up being busy last night," he said as he swung his leg over her railing.

"Yeah," she said, glancing over at him momentarily. "Sorry, I know I said I'd see you, but . . . Finn took me out for dinner, and then . . ." She inhaled shakily as he took a seat next to her. "I don't know, things just started to feel really complicated."

He leaned back against the railing, facing her, sprawling his legs out in front of him. "Meaning?"

"Meaning . . ." She lowered her head, mumbling, "I feel pathetic."

"Why?"

She shrugged sadly. "Because he cheated on me. I should hate him. But I don't."

He sighed, trying to be understanding even though he wanted her to hate him. "You still love him?" he asked.

"I don't . . . I don't know," she sputtered unsurely. "Once you fall in love with somebody, do you ever stop loving them?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer, actually. He'd never been in love . . . until her.

"I don't _like_ him anymore," she said. "I can barely even stand to look at him right now. But he _claims_ he still loves me."

He grunted angrily. "You really believe that?"

She blinked rapidly, ridding her eyes of tears. "I don't know what to believe. I mean . . . even if he still does, it's not enough."

He gazed at her sympathetically, for as much as it frustrated him that she wasn't sitting there dragging Finn's name through the mud right now . . . he _did_ feel bad for her. He felt compassion. Sometimes he forgot that Clarke was only nineteen. Her life had changed a lot in a year, and it had to be hard for her to handle.

"I overheard him and Raven fighting," she told him. "Apparently he pulled the wool over her eyes, too. She thought he broke up with me. Now I think she's furious."

 _What a fuckin' jerk,_ Bellamy thought. He wasn't Raven's biggest fan in the world, but she didn't deserve to have some loser like Finn play her, either. "Good," he said. "She should be. So should you."

"I am," Clarke insisted. "I may not hate him, but I'm _so_ angry with him. I mean, here I was feeling bad about just kissing you, and he's off sleeping with someone else. I mean . . ." It seemed like she was going to launch into a rant until she trailed off, and when she continued on, her voice was quieter, sadder. "I don't know why he would do that to me."

Bellamy didn't know why, either, so that left only one explanation: "He's an idiot."

"Yeah, but maybe I am, too."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I didn't tell him what I saw," she admitted. "All through dinner last night, I just sat there and acted like I didn't know anything."

Well, he didn't exactly like the sound of that. But maybe she was just waiting to drop the bomb on him or something. "And he didn't tell you?" he questioned. Another jerk move.

"No. But he didn't break up with me, either." She sighed heavily, shoulders slumping, and revealed, "He basically said he wants to start over."

Bellamy felt his whole stomach drop when she said that. _Oh, no,_ he thought. _Please, no._ "Don't fall for that," he said.

"I'm not," she assured him. "I don't trust him."

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

Her eyes met his, and she nodded slowly.

"Then trust me on this: He's no good for you."

"I know, but . . ." She groaned in distress. "I told you, Bellamy, I hate the thought of losing him. And I hate myself even more for saying that. But it's like . . . my mom and dad don't even feel like my mom and dad anymore. My friends are off living this whole new life without me. Finn's the only thing—the only _person_ —I haven't lost. Or maybe . . ." Her brows furrowed together unhappily. "Maybe I have, and I'm just holding on to someone who doesn't even exist anymore."

He swallowed hard, trying not to be upset, even though this was . . . upsetting. "So you're gonna stay with him," he said evenly.

"No," she said, and he got his hopes up for a moment before she added, "No, not forever."

Not forever? What the hell did that mean?

"I just . . . I feel like I'm gonna fall apart and never be able to put myself back together if I break up with him right now," she admitted, whimpering. "It's selfish, I know, and I'm so sorry. But after everything that's happened these past couple days . . ." She paused for a moment, shivering. "I wish I was the kind of girl who could just roll with all the punches, but I need a little time to just . . . let things calm down."

He nodded, reluctantly resigned to letting her make her own decision about this. She made her own decisions all the time, different ones than he wanted her to. The strip club, Roan, and now this. But he wasn't about to pressure her into making her decision faster. He hadn't done what he'd done at Roan and Echo's with the expectation that she'd drop everything and be with him. He'd done it because he loved her, plain and simple. And it was also _because_ he loved her that he'd respect her decision, even if he couldn't quite fully understand it.

"But Bellamy, you and me . . . I want that, too," she reassured him, leaning in a bit. "And as horrible as it sounds, part of me kind of loves the fact that _he's_ the one in the dark when it comes to my feelings for you."

So she wanted revenge on Finn then? He wasn't exactly opposed to that, but it wasn't his ideal scenario, either. If he and Clarke— _when_ they got together . . . he wanted it to be all about the two of them, nothing about Finn. "So where does that leave us then?" he asked her.

Shrugging her shoulders helplessly, she replied, "I have no idea."

Great. Neither did he.

"I don't wanna lose you," she said. "But I don't wanna _use_ you, either, especially not after . . ." Her sentence faded.

 _Not after the other night,_ he thought. _With Echo._ Yeah, he'd certainly been used then. Didn't like it very much. At all.

"I'm not choosing him over you, if that's what you're thinking," she assured him. "This has nothing to do with him. I just . . . feel like I need to take a minute to breathe and just . . ."

"Find yourself again," he filled in. As much as he wanted to be with the girl, even he could admit that everything that had happened these past couple of days was a lot to process. No wonder she felt so lost.

"Yeah," she said. "But if you don't wanna wait around for me to figure it out, I understand."

He knew that she was basically giving him permission—not that he needed it—to fool around with other girls in the meantime. But there wasn't one part of him that had any interest in doing that anymore. "No, I'll wait," he said.

She opened her mouth to say something, probably to reassure him that it'd be okay, but he kept going before she got a word out.

"I love you, Clarke," he said, amazed at how easily those words came out now, at how natural it all seemed. "I don't wanna be with anyone else."

She inhaled sharply, and he was mesmerized by the rise and fall of her chest. "I wanna be with you," she said breathily. "And I will be. Just . . . not yet."

It was sort of a hard pill to swallow, but . . . it wasn't like all hope was lost. Clarke wasn't gonna forgive Finn, and if she started to, he'd gladly remind her that she deserved someone better. She deserved everything. "Someday?" he asked, feeling oddly hopeful.

"Yeah," she said. "But I don't know if someday is tomorrow or next week or . . . I don't know, Bellamy."

Tomorrow would have been great. Even next week or next month, he could handle. The longer they delayed this, the harder it was going to be on him. "I'm not goin' anywhere," he said, willing to give her as much time as she needed to be ready for something new. Something with him. Hell, even if she and Finn broke up and she needed some time on her own . . . he'd give that to her. He wasn't going to pressure her for anything; she'd already endured enough pressure.

She smiled appreciatively and scooted closer to him, close enough that she could tilt her head to the side and rest it on his shoulder. He leaned towards her, resting his head against hers, and just sat there with her, imagining what it would be like to do this with her someday— _someday_ —when it was just him and her, when Finn was no longer in the picture. He wanted that day, and he wanted it as soon as possible. But for now, he could give her the time she needed. It didn't make him love her any less.

...

Another night, another performance. Except Clarke didn't feel particularly prepared for this one. She'd winged it up on stage before, but she was a headliner Grounders Girl now, and with that title came pressure and expectations. Anya and Luna were banking on her—literally—to be their number one.

Five or ten minutes before the curtain rose up, Harper came backstage and chirped, "Hey, you almost ready?"

"No." Clarke scrambled around frantically, searching for her makeup under piles of clothes. "I got here late, and I can't find the eyeshadow I want, or the lip gloss, so I look like I just rolled out of bed."

Harper waved off the concern. "Don't worry, that look turns plenty of guys on."

"I guess I _am_ the Girl Next Door," she said, abandoning her quest for the perfect eyeshadow. "I don't have to always look glamorous."

"You look fine," her friend assured her. "And hey, your boyfriend's out there. Is that kind of exciting?"

"Not really." Hastily, she peeled off her generic white t-shirt and threw on a plaid crop top instead. As she tied it above her bellybutton, she rambled on, "I mean, it's weird for him to watch me take my clothes off in front of all these people. But he wants to come to more of these. It's his idea of being supportive, so . . ." She rolled her eyes, honestly wishing he _wasn't_ there. She'd tried to drop hints—major ones—that he really didn't have to come. She'd do her thing and get home at a reasonable time. But Finn was _so_ insistent that this would help them reconnect.

"Well, no sign of Roan yet tonight," Harper said, peeking out of the curtains. "So that's good news."

Just hearing his name made the hairs on the back of Clarke's neck stand on end, so it was better news than Harper even realized. "Yeah, it is," she agreed.

Harper moseyed through the changing room, pretending to be all interested in a fake pearl necklace when Clarke knew full well that, in reality, she had a reason for being back there. That reason came to light when she finally asked, "What all went down with you and him anyway?"

Resisting the urge to shudder at the horrible memory of touching him in that dark alley, Clarke played dumb and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well, the other night when you called me . . . I still don't know what that was all about. You didn't actually end up going over to his house, did you?"

"No," she answered quickly. "No, of course not." She would have, though, if she'd managed to find it. She would have barged right in there without a fake gun, and . . . who knows what she would have done then, but she would have tried to get Bellamy out of there before he and Echo . . . before they . . .

"Look, there was . . . stuff," she admitted, being as vague as possible. "But Bellamy handled it."

"Bellamy was involved?" Harper gasped. "What the . . ."

"Look, Harper, I can't really talk about all this right now. I gotta finish getting ready," Clarke said, sitting down at the makeup table. She grabbed some random purple eyeshadow, pretty sure it would clash with both her skin tone and this top, but she put it on anyway, needing to seem busy so she didn't have to talk about the other night any further.

"Okay," Harper said. She had to still be curious, but she was a good friend, the kind who respected privacy, so she backed off. "Break a leg," she said as she left the room. "Not literally."

Clarke gave her a small wave goodbye, then looked again at her reflection in the mirror. This was really _not_ the right top. Not the right outfit at all, actually. Jeans and a shirt like this would go well with something like "Pour Some Sugar on Me," which Luna was choreographing for _somebody_ , probably for her since it didn't fit in very well with the other girls' brands. But it didn't go with "Apologize," the song Luna had lined up for her tonight. So she quickly untied her shirt and rifled around the closets and chests full of costumes back there, trying to find something that would look softer, more angelic or something.

She ended up putting on something that either could have been a long white shirt or a short white dress. She wasn't sure what it was supposed to be, but it worked as a dress, sort of like a slip. The material was thin and silky and felt really good on her skin. Too bad she'd have to take it _off_ halfway through her performance.

With matching white heels on her feet, she glided out onto the stage after her introduction, and she went through the motions as well as she remembered them. Luna had devoted considerable time to rehearsing this with her yesterday, but she hadn't been focused. Inevitably, there were parts she forgot and moves she had to improvise, but she doubted anyone could tell. Nor did they care. As long as she circled her hips seductively and rolled her body up against that pole, they'd watch. Hell, she probably didn't even have to get up there and do any of the fancy spins and tricks she'd worked so hard on. But she did, because as long as those moves were part of her routine, it felt more artistic and less objectifying.

The song was a moving one, pretty deeply emotional, and despite not knowing the dance, she was feeling her own _dancing_. She didn't look at Finn once, though she knew he was over at the bar with Bellamy. She couldn't look over there, because if she did . . . there wasn't any guarantee she could look away from Bellamy. And this couldn't just be a performance for one. It had to be for many.

She danced to a few other songs after that, more upbeat than the first one. The whole night went relatively quickly, and before she knew it, she was smiling and doing her signature wave goodnight to the crowd as they flicked money towards the stage. The stage bouncer collected it for her, giving her the opportunity to slip back behind the curtains and get her normal street clothes on again. She took off her makeup and put her hair up in a ponytail, too, because she found that, the dumpier she looked when she left the backstage area, the less likely it was that men would approach her and try to talk to her.

Of course, there was one man who had every right and reason to approach her when she walked back out into the club, and he didn't hesitate. "There's my girl!" Finn exclaimed, practically running towards her.

 _I'm not your girl,_ she thought as he scooped her up in his arms. Keeping a secret from him was sort of . . . comforting. She wasn't the one in the dark about the true nature of their relationship anymore. In fact, now she knew more than he did.

He hugged her excitedly, barely allowing her room to breathe. "You did so good! You were so good up there."

She didn't tell him thanks and hardly even hugged him back, because . . . there was Bellamy, standing at the bar, his eyes on her while Murphy took care of the customers. She could see him over Finn's shoulder, and it was like he was _all_ she could see. Locking eyes with him made all the other people and all the other sounds in that place just fade away. At least for a few seconds.

It was exhilarating.

Then it all came rushing back again. The music, the noise, and Finn's arms around her back and waist. She pushed him away gently but insistently, and with a knowing smirk, Bellamy got back to work.

That night, Finn drove her home, still going on and on about how well she'd done tonight. It was a little . . . much. She knew she'd done well. In fact, there was only one time she _hadn't_ done well up on that stage, and that was because of the flu she'd had. She didn't need Finn complimenting every single move as if he were some _Dancing with the Stars_ judge. It just seemed like he was trying so hard. Too hard.

The trying didn't stop when they got inside their apartment. He shut the door and grinned at her, asking, "You tired?" as he backed her up against the wall.

"Kinda," she said, hoping he wasn't expecting . . . anything.

"You wanna go to sleep then?" he asked. "Or stay up and . . . see what happens?"

 _Oh, great,_ she thought. He _was_ expecting something. Something she wasn't willing to give. He started to lean in for a kiss, but she put her hand on his chest, holding him back. "No, wait," she said. "I'm really tired." She really wasn't, but . . . it felt strangely good to turn him down.

Disappointment flashed onto his face. "Oh," he said, backing up a bit. "Alright."

Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like she'd just saved them from one very awkward sexual experience. "And I just think maybe we should . . . pump the brakes a little bit," she decided.

"On . . . this?" he asked confusedly.

"Yeah. I mean, you said it yourself last night, Finn: We've drifted pretty far apart. I don't think sex is gonna magically bring us back together."

He frowned, sulking down the hall. "So you don't wanna have sex with me?"

Even if he hadn't cheated on her, sex with him had always been . . . unsatisfying. So the answer probably still would have been no. "I just think, if you really wanna reconnect, you don't assume getting it on is the way to do it," she said. "So, no, I don't wanna have sex with you." There was also the fact that he'd just screwed Raven Reyes a couple nights ago. And god, part of her just wanted to drop that bombshell on him that she already knew about all of that, that she'd seen it with her own two eyes. And she wanted to tell him that she'd kissed Bellamy, that she'd spent a couple of nights at Bellamy's place, in his _bed,_ even. And she wanted to tell him that Bellamy loved her, just to see how he'd react to that. And she would. She _would_ tell him.

When she was ready.

Sighing reluctantly, he said, "Okay." And with that, he headed into the bedroom.

It was gonna be awkward no matter what, Clarke realized, these nights with Finn. But hopefully she could just get through them. And then she could get to the point where she felt ready for something better.

...

Clarke really did enjoy hanging out with Harper, whether it was work-related or just for fun. But the girl was head over heels for Monty, so she talked about Monty _a lot._ And sometimes, Clarke just got distracted.

"So Monty said he might come here for spring break, which I think is a great idea, although _maybe_ we could splurge and go down to Florida together or something," Harper rambled during their break in rehearsal. "But then again, Florida's so tired when it comes to spring break. _Everybody_ goes to Florida. We don't wanna be like everybody else."

Clarke sat comfortably with her friend on one of the couches below the stage, barely even registering the words she was hearing. Spring break? Something like that? She could barely even think about anything, because she was too busy looking over at the bar, where Bellamy was lifting crates full of glasses up onto the counter while Anya sipped a drink and sorted through the mail. God, he had such nice muscles.

"Anyway, so after I got off the phone, I gave birth to a baby pterodactyl," Harper finished up.

"That's nice," Clarke said, but when she stopped and really thought about those words, she realized they made no sense. "Wait, what?"

"Oh, nothing, I was just checking to see if you were actually listening," Harper said. "You weren't, by the way."

"Sorry," she apologized, "I was distracted."

Harper tilted her head to the side and said knowingly, "Watching Bellamy?"

"No, I wasn't watching him," Clarke denied. "I was just . . . looking at his arms." She looked again, finding it hard to tear her eyes away.

Harper craned her neck back to get a look for herself, then agreed, "Yeah, those are good arms to have. Very strong and safe. Not that I would know."

 _I would,_ she thought, recalling the way she'd woken up with them around her just a few mornings ago.

"Clarke, you're so into him," Harper blurted suddenly. "Admit it."

She couldn't, though, not even to one of her closest confidantes. "No, he's my friend."

"Oh, I think it's a little more than that." Harper sighed. "You want my opinion? Finn's nice and all, but you and Bellamy have this little thing called chemistry. It's so obvious."

So did she and Finn not have chemistry then? Was that what Harper was implying? Because she refused to believe she'd spent over two years dating somebody she didn't have chemistry with. No, she and Finn had chemistry, although maybe not as much as they used to have. It was just that, nowadays, she and Bellamy had . . . more.

"Clarke!" Anya hollered from the counter. "Come here."

"Oh, no," Clarke fretted. "Do you think she knows?"

"About you and Bellamy?" Harper snorted. "Probably."

 _Oh, great,_ Clarke thought, dreading this conversation, especially if it was going to happen right in front of Bellamy himself. Maybe Anya would take her back to her office first.

Clarke got up off the couch and approached her boss nervously. "Yeah?"

Anya held out an envelope and said, "This came for you."

Clarke frowned. Mail? She hardly ever got mail anymore, except for bills, but those never showed up here.

"Lots of our customers use this bar as a post office," Anya said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, my first fan-mail." Clarke took the envelope from her and slid her fingernail under the flap to open it. "Hopefully it's nothing creepy."

"They usually are," Harper warned, joining her at the counter. "One time, this guy sent me a lock of my own hair. I don't even know how he got it."

Clarke's stomach started to churn when she pulled out a thin piece of paper. Her name was scrawled on the front in handwriting she didn't recognize, but somehow, she _did_ recognize it. Because, immediately, it made her feel uncomfortable. The same kind of discomfort Roan had made her feel.

"Who's it from?" Anya asked, peering over.

Slowly unfolding the paper, Clarke tried to show no reaction when she saw Roan's name at the bottom.

"He left me something, too," Anya said. "Apparently he's leaving the city."

"Good riddance," Harper grunted.

"Exactly," Anya agreed. "I'll miss his business, but not him."

 _I won't miss anything,_ Clarke thought, sensing that Bellamy was as fixated on this 'fan-mail' as she was. He'd completely stopped working, but he wasn't saying anything.

The letter was brief, more of a sentence, really, but Clarke knew what it was getting at. _I owe you one,_ was all it said, and immediately, she flashed back to that alley, that night, that disgusting memory. Then she took something else out of the envelope: a check made out to her. For one-thousand dollars.

" _I'll give you a thousand dollars if you give me a hand-job."_

She shuddered.

"What's that?" Anya asked.

"Oh my god, Clarke," Harper gasped.

She held up the check, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

"What's that for?" Anya asked.

 _A mistake,_ she thought. _One I'm just gonna have to live with._ "Nothing," she said. "I mean . . . I don't really know." Needing to get all remnants of Roan out of her life, she crumpled up his note and tore the check in half, then tore each piece in half again. She set the trash—because that's what it was, _trash_ —down on the counter, knowing Bellamy would dispose of it without asking questions. Then she excused herself from the group and headed into the back room.

She felt . . . pretty shaken by that. But there wasn't one part of her that was even _entertaining_ the idea of cashing that check. She was _not_ a prostitute, despite Roan's best efforts to get her to become one. She wasn't going to accept payment for what she'd done with him. Money was power to him, and she wasn't about to let him have any power over her anymore.

 _God dammit,_ she thought, looking down at her hand. Why the hell had she done that with him? Letting him kiss her and put his hands on her when he'd threatened Bellamy's safety had been one thing, but the night in the alley . . . that'd just been her lowest low. And she was embarrassed to have sunk that far.

"You okay?"

She spun around when she heard Bellamy's voice. "Yeah. I'm fine," she said, shoving her hand in her pocket without really thinking about it.

Slowly, he walked towards her, closing the distance between them, and he gently grabbed her wrist to pull her hand out of her pocket. "That was kinda . . ." Massaging her knuckles with his thumb, he mumbled, "I wasn't expecting that."

"Me, neither," she admitted, moving her fingers against his. His touch was warm, comforting.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked.

She didn't feel sure of much of anything anymore. "Are you?" she asked, turning the question back around on him. After all, she wasn't the only one who'd done things she didn't want to do lately.

His eyes stared into hers, and he didn't answer. Didn't get the chance to, because Harper interrupted them. "Oh, sorry," she said, "just wanted to see if . . . never mind." She backed out of the room, but not before shooting Clarke a pointed look.

"It's okay," Bellamy said once Harper was gone. "She already knows how I feel about you."

Harper probably knew a lot more than either one of them gave her credit for. She saw them together all the time. "She knows how I feel about you, too," Clarke confessed.

"What do you feel?" Bellamy asked, and even though he didn't say it, Clarke knew what he was getting at. _Love._ Did she feel _love_?

"Bellamy!" Anya called from out in the club, totally interrupting their moment. "This bar's not gonna tend itself!"

Groaning, he reluctantly let go of her hand and sulked back out to the bar, having gotten no answer to a question he obviously couldn't get off his mind.

Clarke let out a shaky exhale, relieved that she didn't have to say anything. Because if she let herself get in this deep, then there was no going back. Ever.

...

Even though Finn was trying to spend more time with her, Clarke wasn't exactly keen on spending some of that time at his stupid work parties. Every single one of them felt the same as the last, and she always felt out of place at them. It didn't matter if she wore her nicest dress or even if she avoided his stupid cousin as much as possible. Inevitably, something happened that made her wish she was somewhere else. _Anywhere_ else. At the launch party for some cosmetic company's new perfume advertorial, that moment came early in the evening when some guy Clarke didn't even know bumped into her and asked what a stripper was doing at an industry party. Finn either didn't hear or pretended not to, because he just got her a drink and sat down with her.

"I think this party's better than the last one," he said, sipping his way to the bottom of his champagne glass.

"If you say so," she mumbled, downing the rest of hers.

"You want another one?" he offered.

"No, I'm good." She didn't exactly need to be getting drunk and giving these pompous people an even lower opinion of her, now did she?

Glancing around, she searched for faces she recognized, people she knew, but there was barely anyone. "No Raven tonight?" she asked, just to gauge his reaction.

Maybe she was just seeing things, but it seemed like he tensed up a bit, and he didn't look at her when he answered, "No, she's, uh . . . she's not coming." And _then_ he finished off his drink.

"Are you guys still fighting?" she questioned.

"Yeah, we're just seeing eye to eye on some things."

 _Like the affair you wanted to have?_ she resisted saying. That had probably been his plan, to have both of them in his back pocket. He would have kept her as his girlfriend, and Raven would have been his mistress. Or something like that.

"That's too bad," she said, deciding to push it just a little further, if for no other reason than to get under his skin a bit. "You guys had a great relationship. Working relationship, I mean."

"Yeah, we did." He stared down at his empty glass sadly, _really_ sadly, and Clarke started to wonder . . . just how far did his feelings for Raven go? Was it just about sex, or had he actually fallen for her? Like . . . fallen in love with her?

"Does it upset you that-"

"Look, Clarke . . ." he cut in before she could finish her question. "Let's not talk about Raven, okay? We're out tonight, you and me."

 _You and me,_ she thought bitterly. But did he want to be there with Raven? Worse, perhaps . . . did _she_ want to be somewhere else with Bellamy?

Of course she did.

"Okay," she said. "What do you wanna talk about?"

"Well . . ." He paused, grabbing a wine glass of a tray as a serve walked by. "Have you heard from your parents lately?"

She made a face. "Really? _That's_ what you wanna talk about?"

He shrugged. "Just thought I'd ask."

She sighed, not exactly enthused about that particular topic of conversation. "Well, my mom's full steam ahead with her wedding. She keeps asking if I'll come back for the ceremony."

"Will you?"

"I don't know." She hadn't really given it much thought yet. "And my dad's got some new business venture up his sleeve. Some kind of real estate company or something." He'd droned on and on about it on the phone the other night, but she'd sort of tuned him out. Sure, she was glad that he'd have an income again, but that didn't make up for . . . everything.

"My dad got fired," Finn told her suddenly. "I think I gotta start sending some money home to him."

She grunted. "Oh, yeah, 'cause we're just swimming in cash."

"We're getting by," he pointed out. "I can set aside a little bit each month to help him out."

She realized that Finn actually _was_ talking about doing something nice and compassionate, and knowing his parents, they were definitely going to be struggling if they only had his mom's monthly paycheck from the grocery store to live off of. "No, I wasn't trying to sound . . . heartless or anything," she clarified.

"I didn't say you were heartless," he said. Rising to his feet, he took her empty glass from her and said, "Here, let me go get you another drink."

She sat there and watched him slip into the crowd, talking to a few people on his way to a server on the other side of the expansive lounge room this party was being held in. It seemed like he was relieved to get up and move around a little, to not be stuck sitting there with her.

Feeling a bit relieved herself, she took her phone out of her purse and typed out a quick text. To Bellamy. _I'm at a party,_ it said. _Really wish you were here._ She sent it without overthinking it, but . . . she probably shouldn't have.

...

Bellamy half-smiled when he got Clarke's text, and he quickly sent back, _I wish I was too._ He'd agreed to hang out with Miller at some party of his own tonight, but Miller had brought Jackson along. Miller was a good friend, but when he was with his boyfriend, that left Bellamy alone on some couch of some guy he didn't even know. Surrounded by _people_ he didn't know. This was definitely more a of a college crowd at this party, and he didn't belong there.

"Hey, you look lonely," a bleach blonde girl with big fake boobs said as she meandered towards him.

"I'm not," he said quickly.

"You sure?"

"Yep." That girl couldn't hold a candle to Clarke. None of the girls here could.

As the Pamela Anderson wannabe slinked off in disappointment, Miller wove his way through the crowd and said to Bellamy, "Really, man? That's the fifth one tonight."

"I know. What's with all these college girls throwin' themselves at me?" He took a swig of his beer, feeling like he was going to need another if he was gonna last there much longer.

"Maybe they're just tired of the average frat boy. I don't know," Miller speculated. "You keep turning them down, though. What's that about?"

Bellamy didn't say anything, feeling like he wouldn't need to.

"Clarke?" his friend guessed. "Oh, man. You and this girl really need to figure your shit out, you know that?"

Yeah. He knew.

"Nate, you gotta help me out there!" Jackson shrieked from . . . somewhere. There were clusters of people all over that house, dancing, grinding, working up a sweat. Jackson was smack dab in the middle of one of them, surrounded by many of the girls who had tried and failed to seduce Bellamy. "The straight girls are mauling me!"

"Oh, girls do love their gays," Miller said. "I'll be back."

"Actually, I think I'm gonna head out," Bellamy told him, standing up. "Got an audition tomorrow."

"Alright, well, good luck with that." Miller gave him a fist-bump before going to his boyfriend's aid.

Since he wasn't drunk, he was fine to drive, but he still felt hungry, and pizza sounded a hell of a lot better than anything he had at his house. So he stopped at Papa Marino's, ordered his favorite kind of pizza, and was content to just sit there and eat it alone while only periodically checking his phone to see if Clarke had texted him anything else. But his plans for that were dashed when two large, gruff guys came and sat down with him. He recognized one of them, the bearded one, right away—he'd been the guy driving around with Roan the other day. He slid in next to Bellamy.

"Well, well, well, look who it is. Stripper girl's brave knight," he taunted.

Bellamy didn't move, barely looked at them, trying not to show much of a reaction.

"Face looks a lot better than the last time we saw him," the other guy, the one who had sat down on the other side of the booth, added.

"What about that crappy place you call an apartment?" the bearded one asked. "You get all that shit fixed up again?"

It sort of made Bellamy's skin crawl to think that these were the guys who had broken into the place where he lived, the same guys who had beat him up in his own parking lot. But he refused to look intimidated. They weren't so tough without Roan backing them. Without their boss, they were just normal low-lifes. He could handle them.

"Not gonna talk, huh?" The bearded guy chuckled. "Fine, we'll just eat then. I'm hungry." He took a slice of pizza right off of Bellamy's plate and helped himself. "You know," he said in the middle of chewing, "Roan was thinkin' about headin' back to Boston before you showed up wavin' a gun in his face. You ain't as tough as you think you are. Anyone could take you out in a second. I doubt anyone would miss you. Well . . ." He wiped his greasy fingers off on Bellamy's napkin and said, "Except maybe your little whore."

Again, Bellamy tried not to react, but it was _so hard_ not to when he heard that word. His hands balled up into fists on their own accord, and his jaw clenched. It was enough for them to notice.

"Oh, that's what gets you goin', isn't it?"

Across from him, the second guy smirked. "She _is_ pretty. And limber. I'd tear that chick open."

 _Ignore it,_ Bellamy told himself, but how the hell was he supposed to do that? This was _Clarke_ they were talking about.

"Nah, I'd make her get on my knees and suck my cock," the guy next to him imagined. "Whether she wants to or not."

 _You just have to ignore it._ They weren't really gonna do anything to her now.

"Why stop there?"

The bearded guy chuckled cruelly. "You're right. We could just double-team that bitch. One of us in her cunt, one of us in her ass."

No, that did it. Unable to sit there and hear any more of that, Bellamy shoved the much larger guy next to him out of the booth, and he scrambled out right after so he could lay into him. "Don't fucking touch her!" he roared, holding him by the shirt collar so he could punch him repeatedly in the face. He hit him hard and without restraint, drawing blood as pain radiated through his own hand. He hit him the way he _wished_ he could have hit Roan. One punch hadn't been enough for that guy.

He felt someone grabbing his shoulders trying to pull him off, and at first he assumed it was the guy's partner in crime. But when he heard, "Get down on the ground! Hands behind your back," he knew he was in trouble.

He slowly let up, well aware that it was already too late. Of course he would go berzerk on a guy when there just happened to be an off-duty cop in the restaurant. He would have been willing to just sit there and wait, but the cop pushed him face down on the ground and held his wrists behind his back while the store owner called the police. Seconds later, he heard sirens and saw flashing red and blue lights outside.

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ he thought. These two idiots had been sitting here talking about violating Clarke, yet he was the one who was going to end up getting hauled off in a squad car?

It could have been worse, he supposed. They cuffed him, read him his rights, and took him down to the station for assault. They didn't take the other guys anywhere. And Bellamy didn't bother to try to explain what had happened, because he knew it was no use. The police in this town were useless. Who the hell even knew how much shit Roan had gotten away with over the years? They didn't intervene; they didn't try to stop it. Why would they start doing anything right now?

They took his prints, took a mug shot, and Bellamy complied with it all. He answered their questions and didn't blow up when they told him they were taking him back to lock-up. It wouldn't be for long. It wasn't like he'd killed anybody or even seriously injured anyone. The NYPD had bigger problems than him. The only way this would amount to anything was if Roan's right-hand man there decided to press charges, which he'd never do, because he couldn't risk his _own_ wrongdoings coming to the surface.

"Do I get my phone call?" Bellamy asked as a guard escorted him through the police station towards the jail.

Wordlessly, the guard took a turn, dragging Bellamy with him by the elbow. He brought him to what looked like an old payphone, except it wasn't enclosed and didn't require money. "Make it quick," he snapped.

Bellamy picked up the phone, sighing, and debated only for a second on who he should call. Then he dialed the number he'd memorized a while ago and waited for answer. "Hey, it's me," he said after he got one. "I need a favor."

...

It was almost too easy to think of an excuse to leave the party. Clarke just told Finn she wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. He offered to take her, but she told him to stay and enjoy himself. And he did. She left, got in the car, and drove to the police station to post Bellamy's bail. His _bail._ Because he'd been arrested. Luckily, it wasn't outrageously expensive, but she still had to stop at the ATM first.

She drove him home in relative silence. He looked upset and kept rubbing his knuckles. They looked pretty red and had some dried blood on them. Probably not his own blood.

She followed him up to his apartment, and she slipped inside with him. "Do you wanna talk about it?" she asked.

"No," he muttered, throwing his jacket on the floor. "Thanks for bailing me out, though. Murphy just doesn't have the money, and Miller was out with Jackson. I'll pay you back as soon as I can."

"Bellamy, don't worry about it." It was a couple hundred dollars she could live without.

"No, I will," he insisted, flopping down on the couch. He looked exhausted.

"So those were . . . Roan's guys?" she asked quietly, having already made the connection in her head. Bellamy hadn't told her much over the phone, but it was enough for her to connect the dots.

"Yep," he grumbled.

She sat down beside him, sighing. "What'd they say?"

"You don't wanna know."

Huh. She could connect the dots on that one, too. "Something about me?" Whatever it was had to have been enough to get Bellamy worked up, set him off. "God, even when he's gone, he's still making our lives hell."

"No, they'll find someone else's dirty work to do soon enough," he said, reaching over to put one hand on her lap. "It won't always be like this."

She wrapped her hand around his wrist softly, reluctant to touch his hand in case it hurt too much. "Why did you let them get to you?" she asked.

"Because I couldn't . . . what was I supposed to do, Clarke?" he shot back, almost defensively. "Just sit there and let them say stuff about you? No, I couldn't protect you with Roan. The least I can do is . . . try to do better now."

"Nothing's _better_ if you end up in jail," she pointed out.

He pulled his hand off her knee, going back to rubbing his red knuckles again. "I can't protect anyone," he lamented. "Not you, not my mom." His lower lip trembled, and his eyes glazed over for a second, like he was remembering things. "I knew what was happening to her, and I couldn't stop it. Every guy she brought home . . . I just let it happen."

She shivered, only able to imagine how traumatic that had to have been. Here she had plenty of issues, and she'd grown up with two loving parents in a stable household. Bellamy had grown up with . . . something else. "Bellamy, you were a kid," she reminded him. "You couldn't do anything about that."

"No, I could've done . . . something," he said regretfully. "I don't know. I'm just always too late."

"What about Octavia?" she pressed. "She's going to college. You've done a good job taking care of her."

He shook his head. "I haven't, though, not really. Not for the past five years. Ilian stepped in and took over for me. I barely even see her."

"Would you quit being so hard on yourself?" she snapped, hating that he'd taken to beating himself up now that he could no longer beat on one of Roan's thugs. "You're a good man, okay?"

He grunted. "Yeah, right. I only _exist_ because somebody raped my mom."

"But you are a _good man,_ " she insisted, needing him to believe that. It didn't matter where he came from or how he'd even come to be. What mattered was who he was now, and he was . . . he was somebody who'd seen her at her lowest low the other night. And he still loved her anyway. "Bellamy," she whispered, angling her whole body towards his. "You're one of the best men I've ever . . ." She trailed off, lowering her head, then finished up quietly. "One of the best men I've ever known." And she really meant that.

"I wanna be better," he said, and he sounded so sad, so disappointed in himself. But she didn't understand that. She'd known some men who had seemed good only to end up disappointing her—her father and Finn, primarily. But it didn't seem like Bellamy Blake was going to do that. He hadn't let her down so far, so maybe . . . maybe he never would.


	38. Chapter 38

_Chapter 38_

For a week, Bellamy's interaction with Clarke was . . . minimal. Finn was occupying all of her time, but he must not have been keeping her entertained, because almost every day or every night, she texted him. Usually nothing substantial, but at least he knew she was thinking about him. They saw each other at the club, but she was busy rehearsing a new routine with Luna, and at night, when she danced, Finn was _always_ there. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time or something.

Whenever Bellamy did see Clarke, he wanted it to feel . . . electric. So if she was coming home with Finn and he was heading out and they just happened to walk past each other in the hallway, he made sure to brush his hand against hers, and that small touch alone made her breathe in sharply. Whenever she glanced his way during rehearsal time, he made sure to look at her with unabashed desire, because he _did_ want her. And spending less time with her wasn't make him want her any less. If anything, it was making him want her even more.

Then there was the matter of the money he owed her for bailing him out of the slammer. It took him a good eight days to get the money, but once he had it and tried giving it to her, she turned it down. She kept saying things like, "No, I don't need that," and "You don't have to pay me back." But he felt like he did. He'd lost his temper with those guys, and even though he didn't _regret_ rearranging that one guy's face . . . well, he regretted that she'd had to get him out of jail that night.

Since Clarke didn't want to take the money from him, he figured he'd try a different tactic. So when she was busy rehearsing, prior to the start of his shift, he slipped it into her purse. And he figured that would be the end of it until he got home later that night and saw that she'd slipped the money under his door. So he had to try yet _again_.

He ended up waiting until the next night she danced. After she was done, he found Anya, handed her the wad of cash, and told her those were Clarke's tips from the guys at the bar. "Impressive," she remarked before promising she'd get the money to Clarke.

The truth was, though . . . the guys at the bar weren't exactly forking over the cash. Not because they didn't enjoy watching Clarke. _Obviously_ they did. But Finn was once again hanging out there, making his presence known. He cheered obnoxiously loudly for his girlfriend and made sure everyone knew she was his girlfriend, much to their disappointment. He boasted about her, claiming her moves in private were even better than her moves in public. He didn't get especially vulgar, but it still disgusted Bellamy that the kid would sit there and brag about his sex life with her. A sex life he happened to know was non-existent, because Clarke had mentioned she wasn't sleeping with him.

"Yeah, I'm the only one who's ever slept with her," Finn declared proudly as the two guys beside him only halfway listened. "Taught her everything she knows."

Bellamy couldn't help but roll his eyes. Yeah fucking right. He'd heard Clarke and Finn going at it before. It was usually over before it started, and usually, Finn was the one doing most of the noise-making.

"She's a really great girl," Finn went on. "Really great."

 _Then why the hell did you cheat on her?_ Bellamy wanted to say. He actually ended up pouring _himself_ a drink, because if he had to stand back there and listen to this tool for one more second . . .

"Would you stop?" the guy next to Finn finally snapped. "Nobody cares. We come here, watch a girl like that, and we imagine _we_ can get with her. Don't ruin it."

Finn looked a bit taken aback that they weren't more impressed by him. But that did finally shut him up. When Clarke came out from the back room in her hoodie and leggings, he quickly escorted her out of the club, and she barely even had time to glance at Bellamy over her shoulder before she left.

He finished out his shift, wondering if he was any different than those guys. Was he just stuck there _imagining_ , too? Was that all he'd ever get to do? He hoped not. Even though he respected Clarke and respected the fact that this wasn't as black and white for her as it was for him . . . he wanted to be able to do more than brush her hand in the hallway or send her a heated glance across the room. He wanted to be in Finn's place so he could make her feel as good as she deserved.

 _Someday,_ he had to keep reminding himself. And hopefully it was someday soon.

...

All Clarke wanted to do was slip out for her morning run before Finn got out of the shower. But she didn't get her hair up into a ponytail fast enough or didn't get her shoes on fast enough or something, because right as she was headed out the door, Finn came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, hair wet, and asked, "Babe, where you going?"

She turned around and replied, "For a run. I gotta get back into a routine." These past couple weeks had been . . . hectic. To say the _least_. Her workout regimen was pretty much shot to hell, but she had a figure to keep and an image to uphold. The Girl Next Door had to be fit, not flabby. Besides, she'd actually grown to appreciate exercise. It was a good time to clear her mind.

"I'd love to work out with you," Finn offered, and for a moment, she thought he was implying something, like he was using 'work out' as innuendo for something sexual.

"Finn, I told you, I'm not ready for us to start having sex again," she said bluntly.

"No, I meant I wanna go running with you," he clarified.

"Oh." Well, that was an embarrassing mistake to have made. "Okay," she said without even _thinking_ about what she was saying. But when she had a second to register the fact that she'd just invited him along on her morning run, she knew that her head would most definitely _not_ be clear if he accompanied her. But what could she do? Couldn't very well rescind the invitation now.

"Just let me get dressed," he said, heading back into the bedroom.

She sighed, more annoyed than impressed with all the recent changes he'd been making. To his credit, Finn really was trying to be a better boyfriend. Maybe even trying a little _too_ hard? It was like he wanted to be around her all the time. At home, at work, and everywhere in between. Sometimes she just needed a little time to herself. Or . . .

Or time with Bellamy.

"How much do you run?" he questioned from the other room.

"A couple miles, usually," she replied. Finn would probably be amazed that she'd gotten as good as she had. The Clarke Griffin he knew was the same girl who complained about having to run a few laps at cheer practice.

Bellamy's door opened while she waited, and he stepped out clad in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, earbuds in his ears, iPod in his hand. When he saw her standing her in her doorway, he took the earbuds out and smiled a little. "Hey."

"Hey." So he was going for a run, too, huh? Apparently she wasn't the only one trying to resume her routine.

"This is a throwback," he said, stuffing his iPod in his pocket. "You wanna go together?"

"Um . . ." She _really_ wanted to, and she might even have taken him up on that offer had it not been for . . .

"So do you usually run alone?" Finn asked.

She tried not to cringe as she revealed to Bellamy, "He's coming with me." It wasn't like she was replacing him or anything. Finn wasn't going to be doing this with her every day. "No, not usually," she called back to him, feeling a stab of guilt in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't even look at Bellamy, because she knew he'd look disappointed.

"Is Harper comin' along?" Finn inquired.

"I don't think so." She shot Bellamy an apologetic look and whispered, "Sorry."

He shrugged, acting like it didn't sting. "That's alright," he said. "He'd probably slow me down anyway."

 _Probably,_ she thought. Finn wasn't as in shape as he'd been in high school. All these fancy parties with their fancy drinks had sort of led him to get a little bit of a belly. Nothing super noticeable, but she noticed it just because . . . well, because it hadn't been there before. Not that she was shallow or going to say anything to him, but . . .

No, actually, maybe she _would_ say something to him. He deserved it.

"Alright, let's do this," Finn said excitedly as he came out of the bathroom, hair partially dry now, dressed in workout clothes. "Hey, Bellamy," he greeted.

"Hey," Bellamy returned tersely.

"You goin' for a run, too?"

"Gotta stay in shape."

Clarke tried not to react to that, but she knew just how in shape Bellamy Blake was. He wasn't some huge bodybuilder type of a guy, but he didn't need to be. He had that whole lean muscle mass thing going on, and he was very toned.

"Come with us then," Finn invited. "We're headin' out."

Running with Finn was one thing, but running with Finn _and_ Bellamy would be awkward as hell, so Clarke quickly attempted to shoot down that idea. "Oh, I'm sure Bellamy just wants to do this own thing," she said before casting a glance at him. "Right?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't really care."

 _Bellamy!_ she hissed internally. He wasn't supposed to tag along. He had to know that.

"Alright, let's go then," Finn said, grabbing his keys. "If you think you can keep up with a quarterback."

"I was a running back," Bellamy said, "so . . ." And that was _all_ he said, but it was clear, the competition was on.

It wasn't really much of a race once they got going. Finn quickly fell behind Bellamy, and even though Clarke tried to stay with her boyfriend, she was just too impatient and had to go faster. He told her to go on up ahead, so she did. She hustled to catch up to Bellamy, and they took their usual route down streets that really weren't such good streets. She didn't look back once to see if Finn was still following. If he got separated, then . . . well, then she'd catch up with him later.

They stopped at the usual street corner that marked their finish line, and she asked, "Where is he?" as she caught her breath. Bellamy had _definitely_ been pushing the pace more so today than usual. He probably wanted to get as far away from Finn as possible.

"He's back there a ways," Bellamy said, pointing him out for her.

"He looks tired," she remarked. Finn was loping along like a wounded animal, and that look on his face was one of pure exertion. It was kind of hilarious.

"So I take it he was more of a passing quarterback then." Bellamy smirked.

"He's athletic," Clarke insisted. "He just doesn't run like we do. We probably should've slowed down for him."

Bellamy made a face. "No way. It's not our fault that we're up here and he's back there. He should've put in more of an effort to stay with you."

 _More of an effort?_ she thought, fixating on those words. _Stay with me?_ The way he said that sure sounded . . . deliberate. "We are talking about running, aren't we?" she asked him.

His eyes bore into hers intensely. "Maybe."

Oh, they totally weren't. Not anymore, at least. And to be honest, she kind of loved that. It was a little bit of a rush getting lost in Bellamy's eyes even as Finn ran up to them.

"Shit," he swore, bending over, holding one hand to his side. "I'm outta shape."

 _Well, at least he's admitted that now,_ Clarke thought. The next step was maybe . . . getting his abs back?

"We should run like this every day, babe," he suggested.

That was _not_ the next step, though, so she pointed out, "Usually you're already at work."

"Well, I can go in later once in a while," he said. Wiping the sweat from his forehead—his hair was still damp, but not with water now—he looked at Bellamy and said, "You're pretty good. Bet you were kinda pushin' it, though."

"Actually, I'm not even winded," Bellamy was quick to tell him.

She laughed nervously, trying to diffuse any potential tension. "Bellamy's really fast," she said. "In fact, sometimes I have a hard time keeping up with him."

"Nah, I think you keep up pretty well." He grinned.

 _We're not talking about running again,_ she thought worriedly. What if Finn picked up on that? Did it even matter at this point? Was it okay to have all these secret lusty feelings since he'd cheated on her? Or was it still wrong?

Luckily, her boyfriend got distracted pretty easily. His phone buzzed, and when he took a look at the screen, he muttered, "Crap."

"What?" she asked.

"We got a photo shoot this afternoon. Apparently the male model's sick. Flu."

"Oh, the flu sucks this year," Clarke recalled.

"Yeah, he's not coming." Finn pocketed his phone, groaning, "Dammit, now I don't even think we can do this shoot. It's a men's underwear campaign."

Honestly, Clarke was only halfway listening. When Finn talked about work, she tended to tune him out. It was still one of his favorite topics of conversation, even though he was trying not to work quite as much.

"I could do it," Bellamy volunteered suddenly. "I've done photo shoots before."

 _Oh god,_ she thought, picturing Bellamy in underwear. She _really_ didn't need to be picturing that. But she really wanted to.

"Yeah, I think they want more of the all-American type, though," Finn informed him.

Bellamy snorted. "Always do."

"Come on, Finn, he's offering to save your photo shoot here," Clarke pointed out, knowing Bellamy could use some extra money. Plus . . . Bellamy in underwear. Yes. "Give him a chance."

Finn looked him over for a moment, contemplated it, then said, "Alright, fine. Let's give it a shot."

Although Clarke didn't _have_ to tag along for the photo shoot . . . she did. Because there was no denying she _really_ wanted to see this. Cage side-eyed her angrily when she showed up, and she was pretty sure he even pulled Finn aside at one point and lectured him for bringing her. She mostly just tried not to get in the way while people hurried around the set. It was chaos. They kept changing their minds about which backdrop to use. There was talk about using a plain black backdrop, about including a couch in the shot or a chair, but that changed when the model did. They seemed to think a white background would look better with Bellamy's darker complexion, but the couch and chair were white, too, so they just blended in. In all the hustle and bustle, Cage pretty much just stood around flirting with the two female models—yeah, there were female models in this shoot, too, clad in underwear of their own, and Clarke wasn't loving that fact—so Finn had to step in and make the decision. White backdrop, no furniture. They'd try a variety of shots, some standing, some sitting, maybe even some overhead ones with the models lying down.

Clarke had stood in this studio in front of that camera a few times, wearing . . . not a whole lot. But nothing could have prepared her for seeing Bellamy walk out onto the set, also wearing not a whole lot. They'd put him in boxer-briefs that fit him perfectly, emphasizing every— _every—_ inch of his lower anatomy. It wasn't just that his package looked amazing. He had this perfectly-sculpted ass, and Clarke couldn't remember _ever_ being so turned on by a _guy's_ ass before. Girls, sure, but . . .

 _Damn, Bellamy._

He glanced at her only briefly before about half a dozen assistants ushered him into position in front of the backdrop. Cage bid his new female friends farewell, and they joined Bellamy, one on either side of him. They were just as tall as he was, so they made Bellamy stand on a box to appear taller.

The pictures were . . . seductive. Every picture told a story, after all, and clearly the story behind this one was that Bellamy was supposed to be a great looking man who'd seduced two women at once. And since that had actually happened before, he seemed to have no problem finding his groove. His eyes _drilled_ that camera, and he looked absolutely _smoldering_. Clarke felt weak in the knees just watching him. They'd oiled up his chest, an they'd tousled his hair just right. And those boxer briefs fit him like a glove. He looked . . . impressive.

The two girls clung to him, splaying their hands all over his chest, tugging at the waistband of his underwear. Clarke felt . . . a little bit envious, honestly. She knew he would have loved to feel her hands on him, but . . . no such luck. Her arms were folded across her chest, because she was just . . . a spectator.

She did worry that he might feel uncomfortable, just given everything that he'd gone through recently. He didn't want to talk about Echo, but they both knew that what had happened between them was coerced consent at best. Either he was able to separate work from real life or he was one hell of an actor, though, because he didn't seem uncomfortable with the setup of the photo shoot at all.

"Good, good," Finn said as they transitioned down to some floor shots. "Let's get a little more oil on his abs. Girl on the left, a little more life in your eyes."

While one assistant ran in to oil Bellamy up some more, Clarke leaned over to Cage's _personal_ assistant and quietly asked, "Why are there half-naked women here if it's an ad for _men's_ underwear?"

"Sex sells," the girl replied. "Speaking of sex . . ." She ogled Bellamy with a look of undisguised lust on her face. "This guy's way hotter than the model they had lined up. I love his dark hair, dark eyes. Mmm."

 _So do I,_ Clarke thought. There were a lot of things she loved about Bellamy.

"Stacey, get me some lunch," Cage barked to his assistant suddenly.

"Yes, sir," she chirped, even though she had to hate being ordered around like that. With a disappointed moan quiet enough that only Clarke could hear and one last longing look at Bellamy, she left the set.

As Finn started snapping pictures again, Cage eased up behind her, chuckling quietly. "This is the guy you kissed on stage, right, Clarke?" he practically taunted.

She tensed up a bit, hating that he knew about that even when Finn didn't.

"Don't worry," he said. "Secret's safe with me."

She highly doubted that, which made it all the more nerve-racking. It was like ammo that he could use against her at any time. But then again, even if he did tell Finn, why should she feel guilty about it? Sure she may not have told him she'd kissed Bellamy _in a play_ , but he hadn't yet bothered to tell her he'd slept with Raven _in real life._

Then again, kissing Bellamy hadn't just been limited to the stage, either.

"Cage." Finn put his camera down suddenly, looking frustrated. He marched over and spoke in a low tone when he said, "This girl over here . . ." He motioned to the model on the left. "She won't do.

Cage made a face. "Why not?"

"Look at her. She's too thin."

Cage smirked. "No such thing."

 _Ew,_ Clarke thought, repulsed, and she couldn't refrain from adding her own input. "No, I agree, she looks unhealthy." She'd thought that girl was _way_ too thin from the moment she'd seen her. Her collarbone was jutting out. So were the bones in her hips. Her arms and legs were so toothpick-like that she looked gangly and not at all attractive.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Clarke," Cage growled. "In fact, why are you even here?"

"She's with me," Finn said. "Come on, man, trust me on this. She's ruining the whole shot."

Cage sighed heavily, rubbed his forehead, and then said, "Well, somebody call Raven. Bring her in. She never looks bad."

 _She really never does,_ Clarke thought. That was so unfair.

"She's got the day off," Finn said. "Besides . . . she and I aren't seeing eye to eye on . . . things."

Clarke almost snorted and rolled her eyes. But she held back.

"Well, then, this girl's gonna have to do, Finn," Cage said. "Make it work."

"Or maybe . . ." Finn got lost in his own thoughts for a moment before turning his eyes on Clarke. "You could do it."

"Me?" she shrieked. "In the photo shoot?" He was joking, right?

"Yeah, you've done photo shoots before."

Oh, he totally wasn't joking. _Holy shit._

"Photo shoots for her strip club," Cage pointed out, each word dripping with disdain. "That's hardly a major ad campaign."

 _Oh, you smug son of a bitch,_ Clarke thought, fuming. He always did this, used her job as a way to look down on her. And she was fucking fed up with it. "You know what, I'll do it," she decided.

"Great." Finn scampered back to the models and said, "Girl on the left, thank you for coming in. We're gonna try something else now."

Cage glared at Clarke, and she saw his contempt for her in his eyes. He didn't think she could do this. Either that or he didn't want someone with actual curves in his company's ad. Well, screw him. She was doing this.

Oh god, she was doing this.

It took them a while to find the right lingerie to dress her in. They only had sample sizes, and she wasn't a zero. Finally, they found a maroon bra and panties, which fit her almost as well as Bellamy's boxer briefs fit him. They brought her back out onto set, and Bellamy looked utterly confused when she sat down next to him. "What're you doing?" he asked her quietly.

"I don't know," she admitted, positioning her legs the way the other model had. She wasn't nearly as tall, though, so she felt self-conscious about that. Plus, even though she worked out and was comfortable with her body, she knew she didn't have a typical model figure. So that was a little daunting.

"Alright, get close, Clarke," Finn instructed.

 _Gladly,_ she thought as she scooted in towards Bellamy a bit.

"Closer."

She scooted in some more, right up against him now.

"Lean in," Finn said. "There you go. That looks good. Now head down, eyes to camera. And let's see what we got."

That camera started snapping away, and Clarke tried to keep her cool. But her heart was pounding a mile a minute, because Bellamy smelled _so_ good, and he was _so_ nearly naked, and he was right next to her and she was nearly naked, too.

His heart had to be pounding, too, right? Or maybe he was used to this. Surely he'd modeled with women before. Maybe he was able to be all . . . professional.

"Do I have to just stay like this?" she asked him, feeling stiff.

"No, you can move around a little," he said.

Not sure what she was doing but sure that she wanted to do _something,_ she moved in even closer, sliding one hand up his back, plastering the other to his chest. She lay her head down on his shoulder and gazed at the camera with what she hoped was a sultry look on her face. She just imagined she was performing up on stage and put the same look on her face here that she often had there.

"Oh, that's good," Finn said. "Let me get that. That's good." He continued clicking away.

Clarke wasn't sure what the girl on the other side was doing, if anything, but she didn't really care. Her hands were on Bellamy, and that was all that mattered. Her heart kept pounding, but somehow she kept breathing.

"You look hot," Bellamy told her oh-so-quietly.

"So do you," she whispered, never changing her expression.

Finn stopped clicking his camera after a few minutes and said, "Hold that thought. Let me take a look." He went behind the computer and started looking at the photos, Cage hovering over his shoulder.

"Wait a minute," Clarke said, sitting up straighter, taking her hands off of him even though she didn't want to. "Is this like a national ad campaign? What if my parents see this?"

Bellamy leaned back nonchalantly. "Well, then you can tell them to at least be thankful you're not completely naked."

She gave him a look. "Very funny."

"I'm serious."

She sighed, supposing he was. She . . . got naked. As part of her job. And if her parents ever found out about that, they'd be appalled. But they'd be appalled by this, too, so . . .

"Yeah, these are looking a lot better," Finn said as he came back to them. "Let's try for something even a little more sensual. Just do whatever feels natural."

 _Natural?_ Clarke thought. _Everything_ felt natural with Bellamy. But she couldn't do _everything._ "How's this?" she asked, twisting a bit so that she could lean back against him, his shoulder pillowing her neck, her chest arched upward. She bent one leg and kept the other out straight, pointing her toe to try to make herself look longer than she actually was. Bellamy's arm came up to wrap around her waist.

"Yeah, that's good," Finn said. "Girl on the right, go ahead and do the same thing. Just mirror her."

The other model shifted around, mumbling, "You guys gonna get a room after this or what?"

"I wish," Bellamy grunted, thankfully not loud enough for Finn to hear.

 _I wish, too,_ Clarke thought. She couldn't help it. This thirst for Bellamy Blake . . . it wasn't going anywhere. Especially not after today. And she was starting to feel less and less guilty about it.

Afterward, one of the assistants got them all robes to put on, and the other female model booked it back to the changing room. Clarke was more interested in seeing what the pictures looked like. It had definitely _felt_ sexy, so surely they looked sexy, too.

"How'd they turn out?" she asked Finn, venturing back behind the computer.

"Great. Look." He stepped out of the way so she could see a couple of them. Maybe she was biased, but she felt like she and Bellamy stole the shot. The other girl . . . she was like an afterthought.

"Wow," she said, stunned. She'd seen herself in sexy photos before, but seeing herself next to _Bellamy_ was . . . something else.

"Yeah, we'll just have to Photoshop your waistline," Cage made sure to say, "but other than that . . ."

"Go Photoshop yourself," she muttered.

Bellamy came up behind her and said, "Don't listen to him. You look great." Smiling at her, he headed back to the changing rooms, too, and she was _so_ tempted to follow him. Maybe, if that other girl took off, they could just . . .

Well, there were all sorts of things they could do in a changing room.

She couldn't even believe her thoughts were running so rampant. She had urges, sure, but . . . this was starting to get to another level. Even just _looking_ at those photos turned her on.

...

"So who do you wanna be?" Harper asked, holding up two costumes, one of which was a short white dress with a flowing, see-through skirt, the other of which was a frilly pink and white dress with wings and a halo attached. "Aphrodite or Cupid?"

The Aphrodite costume definitely looked more comfortable, but Cupid was a more well-known figure. "Isn't Cupid Aphrodite's son?" Clarke questioned before making her decision.

"Not in our version. Cupid's a sexy, seductive pole-dancer in our version," Harper explained.

"Hmm. I'll take Aphrodite." Those wings and that halo would just get in the way, and Harper was a more seasoned performer and therefore way more prepared to handle a wardrobe mishap than she was.

"But I have all this long blonde hair," Harper protested, whimpering sadly as she looked at the gorgeous Aphrodite dress.

"Fine, I'll be Cupid then," Clarke decided. She could be Aphrodite next year. If she was still working here next year.

"Clarke?" Anya called, poking her head out of her office. "Can I speak with you for a minute?"

She sounded serious, so that immediately made Clarke nervous. "Sure," she said, whispering to Harper before she went into Anya's office, "Am I in trouble?"

"I don't think so," Harper whispered back. "Not unless she knows about all your sweaty feelings for Bellamy."

"Oh god," Clarke groaned, hoping she hadn't become too . . . obvious. She and Bellamy were actually spending _less_ time together than they had before, and they were trying to keep their distance from each other when they were both at the club. Whether one of them was working or they both were . . . they were really _trying_ to keep their distance.

Clarke shut the door to Anya's office after she stepped inside, just in case it was a conversation no one else should overhear. "Harper and I were just getting ready for the Valentine's Day show," she said, sitting down. "She says it's a big crowd."

"It is," her boss confirmed.

"Aren't most guys with their wives or girlfriends on Valentine's Day, though?"

"Sure. And the single ones are at strip clubs."

She nodded slowly, understanding how the crowd could be so big then. "Right. Well, Harper and I are working on a dance that's gonna be a big hit. Both of us, one pole. Lots of new tricks."

"Hmm. She and Ontari did one of those last year." Anya's eyes drifted downward for a second, her whole expression regretful for a second, as it often was when she mentioned or thought of her former Number One. But when she lifted her eyes to meet Clarke's again, she was all business. "Clarke, we need to discuss something."

Oh, that sounded ominous. "What is it?" Clarke asked.

"Your boyfriend," Anya replied bluntly.

"My . . . you mean Finn?" She was so confused already.

"Well, he is your only boyfriend, isn't he?"

She laughed nervously. "Yeah, of course." Had Finn mentioned something to her about her and Bellamy, or . . . no, Finn, didn't even _know_ there was anything between her and Bellamy. "What about him?" she inquired.

"Well, there's really no nice way to say this, but . . . he can't keep coming to watch you perform, Clarke," Anya told her. "He's been here a lot lately, and he's proving to be a . . . distraction."

Clarke frowned, still confused. "What do you mean?" Finn sat at the bar and watched her perform. He didn't even mingle or anything.

"The men come here for a fantasy experience," Anya explained. "In their mind, you're only dancing for them. To hear some guy at the bar bragging about how he's dating you . . . it ruins the illusion. It hurts your brand, hurts your profits."

 _My brand,_ Clarke thought. _The illusion. The Girl Next Door._ She remembered reading something about how so many of the _Playboy_ centerfolds claimed to be single, even if they had a boyfriend, just because they wanted to seem more appealing and attainable to the readers. This sounded like the same type of situation.

"If he's here once in a while, that's fine, but for him to be here every single night you dance . . ." Anya trailed off, sighing. "It's just not a good idea. In terms of business. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I get it," Clarke assured her quickly. "That's fine. That's perfect, actually. I was looking for an excuse to get him to stop coming here so much, so now I'll just tell him he can't be here."

Anya looked a little . . . taken aback by her agreeableness. Not that she was ever confrontational—rule number one of working for a boss was pretty much to _not_ anger that boss—but still, Anya had probably expected her to be more attached to having Finn around. "Okay," she said. "I'm glad we're on the same page then."

Clarke nodded, glad that she now had a legitimate reason for Finn not to be there. When she told him it was all about the money, he'd understand. He wouldn't even put up a fight. They had bills and a new car to pay off, and he still wanted to send some money home to his dad. No, he wouldn't be upset about this at all. Anything that led to her bringing home more cash, he'd support without question. _Without question._ Which was good. Because she felt like she was in a precarious position right now, juggling her history with him and her feelings for Bellamy. She didn't want him questioning anything.

...

Bellamy sidled up to the bar, glad to see an empty stool and a distinct lack of Finn Collins. There were plenty of other people mulling about, though, finding their places close to the stage, waiting for the big headline performance of the night. Just like him.

Just like him.

"No Finn tonight?" he asked Murphy, taking a seat next to Harper.

"Doesn't look like it," Murphy said, quickly pouring him a drink. "Why are you here? You got the night off."

He shrugged. "Nothin' to do."

"Same," Harper said, spinning so she was facing the stage. "I'm going over to Clarke's after she dances. She's gonna help me study for this exam I have next week."

"Riveting." He turned around, too, drink in hand, as Murphy walked down to the other end of the bar to take care of another customer. Niylah was flirting with some girl, and since not many girls came to that club, she was flirting _hard._ So that left Murphy doing most of the work.

"Of course you'd come here tonight," Harper remarked. "You wouldn't miss one of Clarke's shows."

He took a drink as the lights dimmed down. "Why isn't Finn here, though?" he wondered. "Not that I mind his absence."

"Well, you didn't hear it from me," Harper said, "but apparently Anya told Clarke he shouldn't come anymore. Because he was being a distraction."

"Huh." So no more Finn from now on? He loved that.

"So don't be distracting," Harper warned, nudging his arm playfully.

He half-smiled as the music started in. Rather than the regular slow spotlight that illuminated a girl's presence on the stage, this time, it was as if there were strobe lights fragmenting the gorgeous image of Clarke's curvaceous figure as she took the stage. It made her look, for a few seconds, as though she were something virtual approaching that pole. But when the strobe light stopped and the spotlight kicked on, he saw just how sexy she looked tonight. She was dressed in all black, in leggings that went up past her bellybutton and had slits in the sides, held together only by crisscrossed strings. She also had on some black crop top that made her chest look phenomenal, and her hair was up in a messy bun on her head.

"You gonna be able to handle this?" Harper teased. But he didn't respond, because he wasn't sure if he'd be able to or not.

" _Come on closer_

 _I want to show you_

 _What I'd like to do_

 _You sit back now_

 _Just relax now_

 _I'll take care of you."_

She moved around that pole with deliberate slowness, every step and every motion liquid smooth, like water. And he watched in utter awe, because how could someone so young and so innocent get up there and look like _this?_ She was in the zone tonight, turning the seduction factor up a notch or two. In fact, she had that same look on her face that she'd had during the photo shoot the other day, and seeing her like this made his mouth water.

When she reached up and took her hair out of its ponytail holder, whipping it all around her face, the whole crowd cheered. Because now she looked even wilder, even sexier. If that was possible.

" _Hot temptations_

 _Sweet sensations_

 _Infiltrating through_

 _Sweet sensations_

 _Hot temptations_

 _Coming over you."_

She climbed up onto that pole, a real pro at this by now, and showed off some new tricks he hadn't seen before. _Lots_ of splits, which made Bellamy's pants feel way too tight, because seeing Clarke with her legs spread made his mind go to one place and one place only. She spun slowly, controlling her pace so that she could still make eye contact with people in the audience. It was like there was a gleam in her eye, a twinkle, something that was just as captivating as that incredible body of hers was.

God, he wanted her so bad.

" _Gonna take it slow, babe_

 _Do it my way_

 _Keep your eyes on me_

 _Your reaction_

 _To my action_

 _Is what I want to see."_

Gracefully, she slid down off the pole, settling on her knees on the floor. Her backside was toward them, and it looked incredible in those form-fitting leggings. He spent so much time paying attention to her breasts that he sometimes forgot how good she looked from behind, too. And the way she circled her hips and rolled them back and forth made him (and probably every other guy in the club) imagine what it would feel like if she was moving like that on top of him.

He felt like a hypocrite. Because he'd urged her not to take this job, not to put herself in this position. But now she'd gotten so damn good at it, and he loved watching her as much as he hated it.

" _Rhythmic motion_

 _Raw emotion_

 _Infiltrating through_

 _Sweet sensations_

 _Hot temptations_

 _Coming over you."_

When she got back up on that pole, she swung around more wildly this time, legs fanning and flying everywhere. He wasn't sure if she was doing a choreographed routine or just doing whatever came naturally, but she looked so effortless. Like it wasn't even hard for her. Like her body, her _beautiful_ body, was just born to move. Even with all her clothing still on, she had everyone in there riveted. No one was going to dare look away. Least of all Bellamy.

When that routine was over, she transitioned right into another one, one that saw the removal of her top but nothing else. Then she took a few minutes break and headed backstage, and when she emerged, she was clad in only panties, and it didn't take long for those to come off. The only thing left on were her high heels. Other than that, she was completely naked. And completely tempting.

Once she left the stage for good, Harper asked him if he was doing alright, and he didn't answer. Because he felt some kind of feeling deep in his stomach. It was like this swirling anticipation he just couldn't shake. He'd told Clarke he would wait for her, wait until she was ready, but . . . at the same time, he was really tired of waiting.

He decided to take a chance and slip backstage, back into the dressing room where he wasn't really supposed to go. But when he got back there, he realized he wouldn't be able to get any alone time with Clarke there. Roma was closing out the night and was getting ready for that, and she and Clarke were talking. So he slinked off, figuring he might as well just lurk around outside the rehearsal room until Clarke came out.

When she did, she was wearing normal black leggings now, no crisscrossed slits up the sides. And she had on an oversized grey sweatshirt, her hair back up in a loose ponytail.

"Hey," he said, reaching out to grab her arm.

She didn't seem startled in the slightest as he pulled her towards him. Maybe she recognized his touch. "What're you doing here?" she asked.

He didn't answer. Didn't have to. It was obvious. He'd come to see her.

Wordlessly, he opened the door to the supply room, walking backwards, bringing her with him. She followed without complaint or protest, the same longing look on her face that he knew was painted all over his own. Surrounded by glasses and bottles and a refrigerator stocked full of beer, he thought, _Fuck it,_ and made a move. He lowered his head and kissed her.

She kissed him back. Without even hesitating. It just _felt_ natural, for both of them, clearly. One of her hands found its way to his arm, holding onto his bicep, and his settled into her waist. He deepened the kiss, curious to see how far they could take this, and started backing her up towards a small counter. Mouth never leaving hers, he reached down and hoisted her up, setting her down on that small ledge, loving the way she immediately spread her legs so he could stand in between.

"Oh . . ." she moaned when their lips parted ever so slightly, but he silenced her with another kiss, coiling his arms around her so he could press his chest to hers. Her bulky sweatshirt was in the way, but he could tell she wasn't wearing a bra; so with desperate hands, he rid her of the oversized garment and tossed it to the ground. She still had a t-shirt on, but it was easy for him to snake his hands up underneath that. So he did.

She moaned into his mouth as he palmed her breasts greedily, squeezing and rubbing her flesh, rolling her nipples beneath his fingertips. They were heavy in his hands, and he found himself so fixated on them that he could barely keep kissing her. His mouth moved lazily against hers, his breath coming in hot, heavy pants now as his cock strained against his jeans. He wanted her to touch him, to touch him _there_ , but he liked the way one of her hands came up to tangle in his hair, too, digging into his scalp, and how the other kept squeezing his arm. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling his in closer, and he thought about grinding against her, letting her _feel_ just how turned on he was right now, how much he wanted her, how much needed to have her because he'd never wanted anyone this much.

And she wanted it, too. No pressure here, not for either one of them.

But before he could do any of that, they were interrupted back there. The rickety door swung open and in came Murphy with a crate of empty bottles. "Oh," he said, immediately backing up a bit.

Bellamy took his hands off Clarke and took a step back from her, too. She quickly brought her legs together and looked away from Murphy, almost as if she were trying to hide her face.

"Sorry," Murphy said, awkwardly setting the crate down on the floor before leaving the room altogether.

 _Dammit,_ Bellamy thought. His chance with Clarke was gone. For tonight, at least. Having someone walk in on you pretty much killed the mood.

"He won't say anything," he assured her. Murphy was his friend, so it wasn't like Finn was gonna find out because of this.

Clarke looked a little bit shaken by . . . by all of this, really, as she slid down off the counter and grabbed her sweatshirt off the floor. She yanked it back on again and made a hasty exit, looking far less lost in the throes of passion and far more ashamed than she had a few seconds ago.


	39. Chapter 39

_Chapter 39_

Clarke knew—she wasn't proud to admit it, but she _knew_ —that she'd almost had sex with Bellamy tonight. If Murphy hadn't interrupted, she would have let Bellamy fuck her right in that storage room, with total disregard to whoever might find them or hear them. With total disregard to Finn.

She lay with him that night, turned over onto her side so she didn't have to face him. Usually he laid on his back and snored, but of course that night of all nights, he rolled over, moved in close behind her, and tried to put his arms around her. She tensed up immediately when he did that, partly because she was so angry at him for what he'd done to her, and partly because she was angry at herself for what she was doing to him. Which was ridiculous. Wasn't it?

Slipping out from underneath his embrace, she slid out of bed and quietly opened the door to the balcony. She went outside and shut it, releasing a loud, heavy sigh when she was alone. She felt . . . so confused. Because logically, she knew there was no reason to feel any sense of loyalty to Finn anymore. He didn't deserve it. He was the one who'd cheated on her first. Right?

But deep down, she wasn't sure how accurate that was. Because these feelings for Bellamy hadn't just appeared the night of the play, the night she'd first kissed him. Their relationship had been developing for a while now, ever since the day she'd moved in. And she'd felt it growing stronger and stronger each day, felt herself getting closer to him while she and Finn became more distant. And she hadn't done anything to stop it. So did that mean she was partly to blame for all of this, too? And what about now? Finn was _actually_ trying to be a better boyfriend, and she was . . . she was cheating on him now. Lying to him. Just like her dad had lied to her mom.

She raked her hands through her hair, so stressed and so unsure of what to do. Holding onto the railing tightly, she listened as sirens sounded in the distance and her neighbors fought across the street. There was nothing soothing about standing out on this balcony in this city. Yet here she was, trying to figure out if there was a way to clean up this mess her life had become, and fighting the urge to give in and make it even messier.

...

Although Clarke wasn't sure what her plans for the next day were, she _was_ sure a phone call from her mom wasn't the best way to start it off. Her phone rang while she was getting dressed, and she made the mistake of answering it. Her mom sounded angry right from the start, so angry that Clarke almost hung up on her. But then her mom calmed down and admitted that she was just stressed because of all the wedding-planning. It was only a few months away now, and something was wrong with the venue, and she still hadn't found her dress, and she didn't know whether to invite Clarke's father . . . she listed off all her woes in excruciating detail, and after a while, Clarke could barely even listen. She got in the car, still holding the phone up to her ear, and turned on the radio softly enough so that she could hear the music but her mother couldn't.

"I just wish you were here right now," her mother lamented. "This is all stressful enough without worrying about what you're doing halfway across the country."

"Don't worry about me," Clarke told her, though if her mom only knew everything she'd been doing these past few months, she probably would have hopped on the next plane out to come get her. Which was why she _couldn't_ know. Maybe New York City wasn't everything she'd hoped it would be, but Arkadia wasn't any better.

"I do worry about you, though," her mother said. "And I miss you. I _miss_ you, Clarke. It feels like I'm not even a part of your life anymore."

 _You're not,_ Clarke thought somberly, and truth be told . . . she did feel kind of bad about that. Before things had gone to hell in her parents' marriage, she'd been close with both of them.

"You know what would really mean a lot to me?" her mom said, and Clarke had a feeling she knew where she was going with this before she finished her sentence. "If you would come back for the wedding and be my maid of honor."

She sighed unsurely, because they'd talked about this, but . . . it was quite the thing to ask of her to stand up there and both watch and support her mother's marriage to another man, to a man she didn't particularly like or respect. "I don't know . . ." she said.

"Please, Clarke," her mother begged. "Please. I don't think I'm asking for much. This is my wedding day we're talking about here. I would like to think that, as my daughter, you would want to be there, to be a part of one of the most important moments of my life. It's a new chapter for me, you know, and I don't wanna start it without you."

Oh, the guilt trip was strong with this one. Partially because she did feel some internal tug or obligation to be there and partly because she just wanted to get off the phone, Clarke hastily decided, "Fine, I'll do it," but she grimaced as she said the words.

"Really?" her mother gasped. "Oh, sweetie, thank you. Thank you, _so much_. You really don't know how much this means to me."

 _Oh god, I'm her maid of honor,_ Clarke realized. She'd really just made that commitment, a commitment which entailed going home to Arkadia, probably at least for a few days. Great. She just loved having that to look forward to.

At the very least, though, giving in to her mother's request did end the impossibly long conversation just when Clarke pulled up to Grounders. It wasn't even noon yet, so no one was there. She used her key to unlock the place, then locked it back up again once she was inside. Taking one look at the pole up on stage, she imagined what she looked like up there, what it was like to be somebody in the crowd watching her while she danced. They didn't know about anything she was dealing with. All they knew was that she was the Girl Next Door, and she was willing to dance and take her clothes off.

It was too dark in the main room to do much rehearsing, and she didn't feel like messing with the complex light system. So she headed back to the practice room instead, flipped on the lights, set her purse down, and took her shoes off. Then she stretched out her arms and her legs a little bit, not sure if she wanted to practice the Valentine's Day routine or just . . . just dance. Turn on some music and do her own thing for a while.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the pole with both hands and swung herself around into a spin.

...

When casting directors told you'd they'd be in touch, they rarely ever were. It was like the kiss of death at an end of an audition. If they'd liked you, they would have said it.

Bellamy sulked out of his latest audition and ditched the script in the nearest trash can. So much for landing a part in that small-budget movie. Maybe he'd be better off going back to commercials or looking for some theater parts again.

"How'd the audition go?" a familiar voice came up from behind him.

He turned around, pissed to see Pike there. "What're you doing?" he asked.

Pike smiled. "Figured you'd give it a go on this part. Seems like you're kind of thing. Any character that's got edge but also has a heart . . . that's what you gravitate towards." He smirked. "I know you, Bellamy."

He sighed impatiently, not really in the mood to stand around and talk to his former agent.

"And I know that you need some help," Pike went on. "Now I know you had your frustrations with me. But we both know making it in this business without an agent is rare."

"I'm doin' fine," Bellamy insisted. "Go find someone else to let down." He spun and started down the sidewalk, wishing his car was parked closer and not down at the end of the block.

Pike, of course, followed him. "Are you really doing fine?" he challenged. "Right now, you're a bartender, Bellamy. You're not an actor."

"I just did a photo shoot the other day," Bellamy informed him. "Yeah, I'm doin' fine."

"Oh, a photo shoot." Pike laughed. "Come on now, we both know what kind of pay men make for those."

Well . . . he was right about that much. Even though it'd been a photo shoot for _men's_ underwear, he was pretty sure Clarke and the other girl had still walked away with more money than he had.

"Bellamy, I can help you," Pike insisted. "You just have to give me another chance."

He wasn't interested in giving second chances, though, especially not to Pike. "Fuck off," he muttered, picking up the pace. Pike finally seemed to get the point, and he stopped following him.

Bellamy got in his car and drove, determined not to dwell on . . . things. This audition today . . . he had no one to blame but himself. He'd screwed up the lines and hadn't brought his best. So he couldn't be bitter about that.

But then there was Clarke. And it was a whole lot harder not to dwell on that. Especially when he drove past Grounders and saw her car parked out front.

He whipped into the nearest space, parking haphazardly and well over the lines. It was a metered spot, so he had to rummage around in his pocket and find a few coins to drop in to buy himself some time. He wasn't sure how long he'd be here. It probably depended on whether or not Clarke was there alone.

When he got inside, the club was still dark, just as it usually was before they opened up later that afternoon. But he saw light coming from the rehearsal room, and he heard music, too. So he ventured back there.

He found Clarke alone in the room, dancing to a very different type of song than he was accustomed to hearing there. It sounded like her Taylor Swift shit, and he thought he even recognized it as the song he'd heard her singing out on her balcony, back when it'd been his first time ever hearing her sing.

She didn't seem to notice him as he stood in the doorway, watching her. She was completely absorbed in what she was doing. And what she was doing was . . . amazing. She swung around the pole slowly, gracefully, making all sorts of artistic, intricate lines and shapes with her body. Her hair whipped around sometimes, fell in front of her face at others, and she didn't bother to brush it out of the way. She wasn't performing right now; she was just dancing. Not for anyone else, just for herself.

Just like last night, he couldn't take his eyes off of her. But unlike last night, when she'd looked so sexy, now she just looked . . . beautiful.

She started doing some move where it looked like her legs were running in the air, and when she lifted her head just slightly and saw him standing there, she nearly dropped down off the pole with surprise. "Oh!" she gasped.

"Sorry," he apologized. He hadn't meant to scare her.

"It's okay," she said, quickly bending down to pick up her phone and shut off the music. Without that going, he could hear how hard she was breathing, a clear sign that she'd been there a while.

"That was really good," he told her. She'd looked just as enticing now as she had the other night, and right now, she had all her clothes still _on_. She didn't have to strip down to nothing to make people want to watch her. She was talented enough that people would watch her no matter what.

"I was just kind of messing around with some things," she said, looking first at the pole, then at him.

"You should dance like that some night," he suggested. What she'd been doing now was so much less objectifying. Surely she felt a difference.

Looking down at the floor, she shook her head and mumbled, "No, I can't. That's not what people come to see, so . . ." She shrugged a bit sadly and lifted her eyes to meet his again.

"I like seeing it," he said, leaning against the doorframe. He was starting to feel his own breaths coming faster now, if for no other reason than the fact that she was there and he was there and there was no one else around. And there was a couch in that room, just a few feet away.

"Bellamy . . ." she said, and that was _all_ she said. She just let her sentence fade off after that, like she either didn't know what to say or just couldn't say anything. And really, he didn't know what to say, either. He'd already told her how much he wanted her. Hell, he'd told her more than that. He loved this girl, and she knew it. Seemed like practically everyone did.

So they just stood there staring at each other, him in the doorway, her with one hand still wrapped around the pole, an aching tension building between them. The silence between them filed up fast with everything they _weren't_ saying, and it was unbearable.

He couldn't stay there much longer, not when it was just the two of them like this. It was too tempting to just haul her over to that couch and do what they both wanted to do. But when— _if_ he ever slept with Clarke, he didn't want it to be here in this room on that couch. Not for the first time, at least. They wouldn't be alone for long here. Anya or Luna or someone else would come open up for the night. This wasn't . . . this wasn't the right place.

They just looked at each other for a long time, and he wondered if she felt the same pangs of longing in her gut, if it was as hard for her to resist this as it was for him. She had Finn to think about, but he didn't have that. He didn't care about Finn. He just . . . didn't care.

But he cared about her, and he respected her, and he wasn't gonna push this until she was ready. Last night in the back room had been a mistake. A hot mistake, sure, but a mistake nonetheless. He was supposed to be waiting, waiting until she was ready.

 _I'm ready,_ he thought, but he wasn't the one who mattered here. She did. "I should go," he said, feeling like, if he didn't leave now, something was going to happen. It felt like one little spark was gonna make them explode.

"You don't have to," she said quietly.

"No, I do." If he didn't . . .

Reluctantly, he turned and walked off, and each step was actually _painful_ , because she was _right there_ , and she _did_ want him. He knew that. She'd wanted him last night, and she wanted him now. Just like he wanted her.

Well, maybe not _just_ like he wanted her, but . . .

When he was on his way out and halfway through the club, she came out after him and said his name again. "Bellamy . . ."

He slowed but didn't stop. "Clarke . . ." Were they really gonna do this again?

But then she surprised him. "Bellamy, I love you."

He stopped completely, only a few feet away from the door. She . . . had she really just said that?

As if to erase any doubt, she said it again, "I love you."

 _Holy shit._ All he could do was just stand there, his back to her, taking that in. It still took a few seconds for him to convince himself that he wasn't hearing things, that she'd really just said that, because . . . holy _shit_.

When he turned around to look at her, she didn't look . . . worried or conflicted or anything in that moment. In fact, she breathed a sigh of relief and smiled at him. "I didn't come here thinking this would happen," she confessed, "but it did, and . . . I know it's complicated, and I know there's a lot of stuff to figure out, but Bellamy . . ." Her eyes, her whole face, just lit up, and in that moment, she just looked so _happy_. "I love you, and . . ."

He strode straight toward her, not even giving it a second though as he cupped the back of her neck and crashed his mouth down onto hers, kissing her with complete and utter _desire_ , because there was absolutely _no_ use fighting it anymore. She _did_ want him the way he wanted her, because she loved him.

She _loved_ him. And he loved her. And they were kissing.

And they weren't gonna stop this time.

...

Burning, yearning, Clarke tumbled into Bellamy's apartment with him, her hands desperately grabbing onto any part of his body she could find as they kissed each other passionately. They'd barely made the drive here in one piece. But now, here they were, and it was just the two of them, and they both wanted this so much.

With ferocious need, he slammed the door shut and pinned her back against it, plastering his body to hers as their mouths mated. She could feel everything: his sculpted chest, encompassing arms, bulge in his jeans. He rubbed up against her, _showing_ her how turned on he was, and god, she loved it. She loved it so much.

In the midst of exploring the texture of his way-too-talented tongue, she felt his hands bunching up her shirt. Any thoughts she may have had became jumbled, because suddenly all that mattered in that moment was one simple, carnal thing: getting naked.

She lifted her arms as he swiftly dealt with her shirt, yanking it off of her and dropping it onto the floor. He wasted no time giving crashing his mouth back onto hers for a few seconds before dragging it from hers and kissing a messy path down her neck, over her collarbone, and to her cleavage. Like a man possessed, he pressed hungry, sucking, open-mouthed kisses to her breasts, panting heavily, his breath hot and urgent against her skin.

She struggled to toe off her shoes and arched her back up from the door, pressing herself into his mouth, reveling in the sensation. And because she wanted more, she reached behind her back to unclasp her bra and shrug it to the floor.

When her breasts fell free, he pulled back for a second—just a second—stared at her in amazement, and then locked eyes with her. He looked like . . . like he couldn't believe this was happening, completely astonished. Shocked and happy.

Since it really wasn't fair that she was already halfway naked and he was still fully clothed, though, she balled up his t-shirt in her hands, giving him a tug to signal that she wanted to feel his skin against hers. He got the hint and reached down with crisscrossed arms to peel his shirt over his head. It landed on the floor, right on top of hers, and the minute his gorgeous, fit, tan chest came into view, she caressed her hands all over it. He was taut and muscled and had that whole v-cut thing going on down by his abs, and his low-slung jeans hugged his hips and did little to conceal the massive hard-on underneath.

Clarke barely had any chance to admire his physique when he lifted her up off her feet. She gasped in surprise but instinctively draped her arms over his shoulder and wrapped her legs around his waist. They resumed kissing, and she was so caught up in it that she didn't even realize he was taking her over to the kitchen counter until he'd set her down atop it. Unfortunately, there wasn't a whole lot of room there, and she ended up hitting her head on one of the cabinets.

"Ow," she yelped.

"Sorry," he apologized, and it was onto the next destination as he lifted her up again. This time, he brought her to his small kitchen table, swiped one hand over it to knock some silverware and his plastic fruit centerpiece to the floor, and then laid her down on top of it. With the table as tiny as it was, though, it was wobbly, especially when he started to crawl on top of her. He must have immediately realized that wouldn't work, either, because he muttered a few impatient curses, then finally just carried her over to the bed, never letting up on the kissing until he laid her down on the mattress.

She scrambled up towards the pillows, her hormones racing as she watched him kick off his shoes before he got into bed and crawled on top of her. His knees nudged her legs apart, and she complied without thought, spreading them open so that he could settle in between them. His mouth then continued its loving attack on her body, raining kisses down from her lips to her breasts. This time, he concentrated on her pebbled nipples, swirling his tongue around them and sucking them into his mouth. His firm lips knew what they wanted, and his clever hands never stayed still. If they weren't rubbing up and down her sides, they were palming whatever breast he hadn't latched onto, kneading her flesh insistently, squeezing and molding her skin. It was like he was an artist or something.

"Oh god," she moaned, already feeling like he was tampering with her sanity. She'd always known that Bellamy was good at this, that sex with him would be like a drug. They'd barely even started, and already, it was _everything_.

After lavishing a considerable amount of attention on her breasts, he trailed kisses down her stomach, causing her abdominal muscles to flutter in response to even the slightest graze. He kissed around her bellybutton, managing to be tender and passionate at the same time. Though there was still something frenetic about his ministrations, he wasn't just rushing things. It felt like he wanted to catalog every curve and dip of her body, memorize every line and crevice. Sometimes he'd pause and just breathe against her skin. He was breathing so hard.

It started to become nearly maddening when he got to work on her jeans, his skillful fingers popping open the button and sliding her zipper down. There was this look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face, one that was surely mirrored on her own. She lifted her hips off the bed, allowing him to hook his hands into the sides of her pants and pull them down over her ass. She lay back again once he'd gotten them down far enough, and then he sat back on his knees, sliding them down her legs without breaking eye contact with her.

She wasn't graceful in that moment—didn't need to be—as she lifted her legs. In fact, she nearly kicked him in the head. But he wouldn't have minded. The minute he got her jeans all the way off, it was like he was in a trance. He smoothed his calloused hands over her calves and her thighs and urged her to spread her legs again. It made her a little self-conscious, but she did it. Clad now in only silky underwear, she lay before Bellamy, totally and completely willing to take whatever he wanted to give her. She _wanted_ this.

For a second, when he reached down to unfasten his own jeans, she thought he might be cutting straight to the chase. But he left his pants on, so it'd probably just been to loosen the confines up a bit, get a little relief down there. He didn't even bother to touch himself, though. Instead, he reached out and touched _her_. In a place he'd never touched her before. She hissed in air when she felt his long, thick fingers stroking her slit through her panties. She was ridiculously wet, soaking straight through the thin fabric, and he seemed to like that, because he just rubbed harder.

"Yes," she gasped, spurring him on, wriggling against his hand wantonly. She wanted him to fuck her with those fingers; she wanted them inside her.

They were so on the same wavelength, because instead of teasing her for too long, he pushed her panties aside and pressed a finger up inside her, pumping it in and out, getting a feel for her. She felt so ridiculously turned on that she thought she might cum right then and there.

"Yeah," he growled in that gravelly voice of his, watching with this look of fascination on his face as he put another finger inside her. She moaned loudly and squirmed wildly with need. It'd been so long since she'd felt like this, like she was the center of someone's universe. But right now, it was like all he could see and all he could think about was her body. And it wasn't a lecherous or vile type of attention he was giving to her. It was almost . . . reverent.

She whimpered in protest when he suddenly withdrew both fingers, but she knew he'd still take care of her when he took the sides of her panties in both hands and peeled them down. She once again lifted her hips up a bit to assist him, and when he had them off and tossed them to the floor, he grinned excitedly. There was nothing left to conceal her from his view, from his _hands_. Sure, he'd seen her naked before, but he'd never actually _had_ her naked.

Slithering down on the bed, he was a man on a mission as he brought his head down in between her legs. She knew what he was about to do before he even did it, but that didn't stop her from gasping the second she felt his mouth on her pussy. She lost her senses for a moment, and a quivery awareness shot through her that Bellamy was going down on her. Obviously eager to sample her, he plucked kisses from her lower lips in a way that made it clear he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. He didn't charge right in with his tongue; no, he took the time to literally make out with her down there, and it felt _amazing,_ especially when he kissed her clit.

"Oh, Bellamy!" she cried out, trying to crane her neck upward so that she could get a better look at him. He was _so_ in the zone, eyes closed as he set about devouring her. Gradually, his tongue started to join the fun. She felt it first in the form of little flicks, just barely enough for her to notice, but then he started zig-zagging it around, tracing it up and down her slit, adding to the wetness that was already there. He was _tasting_ her. He had his head between her legs, and he was tasting her arousal.

"Oh . . ." she moaned again, overwhelmed by sensation. She nearly lost it when Bellamy flattened out his tongue and started licking her so deliberately, like a popsicle. It made all sorts of filthy sounds, his licking mixed with his heavy breathing and her pleasured gasps. He pressed his tongue hard and flat against her, as if demanding entrance, and she ground down against his face, swept up in the feel of it. She wanted to cum so badly, and he was getting her so close to that point.

When he pulled back just a bit, she prayed to God he wasn't done, because this was absolute _heaven_ , and she needed more. And thankfully, he wasn't. He brought his fingers into the action again, inserting the same two inside her, and resumed pumping them in and out. This allowed him to devote all his attention to her clit and her hips bucked so high when his tongue first grazed the tiny bundle of nerves, he had to put his free hand on her pelvis to hold her down. He used his tongue to tease her, flicking it rapidly against her clit, circling it torturously, all while his fingers kept up their rhythm, doing their part to drive her closer and closer to the edge.

"Oh my god," she managed, all her words blending together. "Oh my god." She felt it first down at her center and in her thighs, this warmness that just kept building. And then it was as if it spread to her stomach, and it just kept building and building. Finally, this wave of pure, undeniable pleasure exploded through her body, and she grabbed at the pillow and at the sheets as her orgasm hit. She felt like she was flying, like nothing could bring her back down from this as the feelings flooded her. Her body twitched pleasurably with each spasm and surge radiating through her, and everything just felt _so fucking good_ for about fifteen or twenty seconds. And Bellamy never let up on her that whole time. He kept his fingers inside her and his mouth on her while she rode it out. There was definitely a small gush of fluid, and he lapped at it greedily, drinking her down.

"Oh . . ." she said shakily, relaxing into the mattress as she came down from her high. She felt blissful and breathless with pleasure, and she smiled dazedly, not even sure this had actually happened. It felt like a dream. It felt like everything she'd imagined when she'd touched herself these past few months, except it felt even better.

Slowly, Bellamy withdrew his fingers, both of them coated in shiny liquid, and he pressed a couple more soft, tender kisses to her while his hips ground against the mattress. She loved that he was getting off on this so much.

As much as she loved him being down there, she was definitely sensitive now, so it was a good thing when he lifted his head and looked up at her. She could barely keep her eyes open, but when she saw him licking his lips, she just had to. Because that was just too hot of a sight to miss out on.

"Bell," she choked out, hoping her inability to say anything substantial said it all.

He kept things pretty wordless, too, by slowly sliding back up her body, kissing a path upward to her stomach again, once more lavishing attention around her bellybutton. Reaching up with his long, strong arms, he palmed her breasts, squeezing gently but insistently.

Her whole body felt boneless, but still, she wanted more. She wanted to feel the full weight of him on top of her. She wanted to feel his naked chest sliding against hers while he fucked her. She wanted to cum again, and she wanted him to cum, too. He deserved to feel as good as he'd just made her feel, maybe even better.

 _It's happening,_ she thought as he sat back on his knees again. He rubbed himself through his jeans for a moment, then groaned and sat down to take them off. He wasn't quite as smooth removing his own clothes as he'd been removing hers. If anything, he looked a little impatient, because he got his pants off as quickly as he could, muttering a few curses when he couldn't remove them as quickly as he wanted to.

Seeing him in just his underwear made her think back to that photo shoot. But seeing him take off that underwear was something else altogether, because . . . she'd never actually seen Bellamy naked before. She'd seen him shirtless, seen him with only a sheet wrapped around his waist, even. But never like this, without a stitch of clothing on. Suddenly, she was breathtakingly aware of his size.

Bellamy was . . . big. Bigger than anything she was used to. His cock was rock hard, practically defying gravity at this point, as it stuck straight out from his groin, skin darkened as fluid gathered at the tip. She didn't mean to fixate on it, but . . . how could she not? He was about to put that thing inside her, and she honestly wasn't even sure if it would fit.

She brought her legs together, not because she didn't want to have sex with him or anything, but just because . . . now she couldn't help but feel a bit nervous.

Scooting up on the bed a bit, he reached over to his night stand, pulled open the drawer, and took out a condom. Her eyes widened in anticipation as he tore open the small foil package with his teeth and then sat back to roll it onto his cock. He gave himself a few strokes with halfway hooded eyes, but he must have noticed her looking a little worried, because he asked, "You sure?"

She nodded, opening up her legs again. "Are you?" she whispered. Because after everything he'd been through, he deserved to give some explicit consent, too.

"Yeah," he said, walking forward on his knees. He settled in between her legs, lying down on top of her, one forearm on either side of her head. But instead of pressing into her, he took a moment and just kissed her again. It was a calmer kiss now, still passionate, but one that put her mind at her body more at ease. She rubbed his shoulders and biceps, appreciative of his tenderness. This wasn't her first time by any means, but still . . . it was her first time with _him._

The head of his cock nudged her entrance, and her damp thighs quivered in anticipation. He ground himself against her a bit, just teasing, never entering, while his mouth continued to mate with hers. He dipped his tongue in between her lips, as if mimicking what his lower body was about to do.

"Bell-Bellamy," she murmured against his mouth, her voice not entirely steady. She felt ready for him, as ready as she would ever be.

One more kiss, and then he pushed himself back up again, his cock still poised exactly where it needed to be. He pushed her knees outward, opening her up even further, to the point where one of her legs was practically dangling off the bed. Then he gripped the base of his shaft and rubbed the head of his cock up and down her folds, grinning as he tortured her so delightfully.

"Uh . . ." she groaned, throwing her head back. God, that felt even better than his mouth had. She wanted him to fuck her with it. So bad. Even if it was tight, even if it stretched her a little, she wanted to feel him inside her.

When he started to push in, she was pretty sure she stopped breathing. Her body stretched to accommodate him, and she felt so fucking _full_. It didn't hurt, but it definitely felt . . . different. Different than what she was used to. And different in a good way.

She couldn't exactly see what was happening, so she had no idea how much of his cock was in there when he bent forward again, lying back down atop her. "You okay?" he asked, his voice a concerned whisper.

Again, she nodded, because god, she was so much more than okay. He hadn't even started moving yet, and already, it felt incredible.

He stole a few more sloppy kisses, keeping his hips remarkably still while she absorbed the feel of him. It was really sweet that he wanted to be so careful with her, but she wasn't gonna break. So she raked her fingernails up his back and dug them into his shoulder blades, trying to communicate that she wanted him to start thrusting.

It may have been their first time together, but he seemed to understand what that meant. Because he tore his lips away from hers, gazing down at her hotly as he began to thrust his hips forward. Not too fast, not too slow. Not too hard, not too soft. He found his rhythm right away.

The muscles in his back flinched, and her knees clamped his naked thighs as he did his best to fuse himself with her. His testosterone was definitely getting a workout, and she loved that his dark eyes had grown even darker, that his ragged breathing was coming even heavier. Some of his unruly dark curls were sticking to his forehead, because he was working up a sweat.

Trying to match his rhythm, she arched her hips up into his, feeling even more of his cock slide into her when she did that. There was some slight discomfort as he continued to stretch her, but she loved the feeling. She loved no longer being Bellamy and Clarke, two separate people, but just being this one person. Because really, that was what they were. It was a reckless lust unlike anything she'd ever experienced, and she couldn't tell where he ended and she began.

Shock waves of pleasure sizzled through her as he picked up the pace and increased the force of his thrusts. Relentlessly now, he drove into her, causing the whole bed to shake and the mattress to squeak. It was like this unfurling of pent-up passion. She felt it coming off of him in waves, and it was coming off of herself, too. Her hands scrambled for purchase on any part of his sweat-soaked body she could reach. His back, his arms, his sides, his hair. One of his hands found hers, and he interlocked their fingers, holding on tightly as he pounded her. Burying his face against the side of her neck, he panted hotly against her skin and fucked her hard, just like she wanted. The lean muscles of his stomach slid against the fluttering muscles of hers, and when she coiled her legs and feet around him to pull him even deeper into her, she felt his thighs and calves flexing and clenching with exertion.

"Oh god," she gasped, squeezing his shoulder with her free hand. "Oh god!" This wasn't like anything she'd ever done before. This transcended physical pleasure. She'd never felt so connected to anyone in her entire life.

"Clarke," he rasped against her fevered skin. And that was all he said, but it turned her on so much. She felt this sharp spasm of need down in her pussy as the tension continued to build where their bodies were joined. God, she felt so close to cumming again, felt herself clenching and unclenching involuntarily. In the pit of her stomach, she felt another orgasm swirling, threatening to blow her apart into a million tiny little pieces.

"Oh!" she cried, too worked up to even get his name out now. A high-pitched wail of a moan flew past her lips as she fell apart for the second time since he'd gotten her in that bed. She shook uncontrollably beneath him as pleasure burst throughout every inch of her body. It was unreal, and he kept fucking her through it, kept his face down against her neck, his stubbly jaw scratching her skin as he desperately sought his own release.

She'd barely come down from her orgasm and was still _very_ much aware of the long, hard cock pounding away at her when, a few seconds later, he came, too, his hips jerking into her jarringly as he experienced his own orgasm. His seemed to last just about as long as hers did, and even when it was over, he kept trying to fuck her; his hips kept moving just a little bit. But gradually, they came to a complete stop, and it was clear that he was exhausted. His body was drenched in sweat, and his arms shook as he tried to keep holding himself up.

Clarke felt utterly satiated. There was just such a deep sense of completion in that moment between them as they lay there, still joined together, both of them still recovering from the onslaught of sensation they'd just experienced. Bellamy put some of his weight on her, and she liked the feel of his heavy body. God, she just liked the feel of him.

Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers through his wild hair, waiting for him to recover, waited for her own breathing to return to normal, too. She felt euphoric. Ecstatic. And not quite as lost as she had these past few days.

She felt in love.

...

Lying in bed with Clarke Griffin was something Bellamy had only done a few times. Lying in bed with her naked, her curled up into his side, nothing but thin sheets draped over them . . . that was completely new. And it sort of blew his mind. They were actually here right now. They'd actually done this.

 _Finally._

"So how was it?" he asked as he lightly grazed his fingers against her skin and threaded his fingers through her hair.

She laughed a bit in response. "Are you really asking me that? You should know. You were there."

"Yeah, but . . ." He smiled. "I mean, was it everything you hoped it would be?" He couldn't deny that, even though he was confident in his bedroom skills, the prospect of having sex with Clarke Griffin for the first time had terrified him. Because he felt a lot of pressure not to let her down. "Did it live up to your expectations?"

Again, she laughed. "Just how much do you think I fantasized about this?"

"A lot."

"Okay, you got me there." She propped herself up on her arm, causing the sheet to fall from her chest, then leaned in to kiss him. It was such a relaxed, simple kiss, a stark contrast to how desperate and wild they'd been when they'd first spilled into his apartment. Everything had calmed down now, and they had time to just rest together and enjoy the beautiful aftermath of what they'd done. "It was amazing," she assured him. "What about you? Did you think it was amazing?"

He gave her a look. "What do you think?"

"Well, I _know_ I thought it was amazing," she said, tracing invisible, nonsense designs on his chest, "but I wanna know what you think. Because obviously you're older and more experienced than I am."

Admittedly, he hadn't given much thought to _her_ insecurities. He thought of Clarke as a girl who was brimming with sexual confidence, because she got up on stage every week and commanded the attention of an entire room. But of course she'd been nervous, too. She was nineteen, and up until this point, she'd only ever been with one other person.

"You were incredible," he told her, clasping his hand over her own. "You made me feel . . . so good."

Blushing, she lowered her head a bit and mumbled, "Well, you made me feel good three times."

He grinned, excited to make her feel that way some more. They'd just scratched the surface. There was so much more they could do together. "No regrets, right?" he said, well aware that this whole thing was still . . . complicated. On the other side of that wall was a bed she wasn't going to find her way into tonight.

"No regrets," she agreed, leaning in for another kiss. He gave her one, then let the exhaustion start to overtake him as she snuggled down into him again. Her smaller body felt like a perfect complement to his own, and he wrapped both his arms around her, holding her tightly, breathing her in.

He'd never felt so fucking happy in his entire life.


	40. Chapter 40

_Chapter 40_

Clarke felt like she was doing the walk of shame the next morning. And maybe she was. She'd spent the night with Bellamy, after all, and had lied to Finn about where she was. Even though she really _didn't_ have any regrets, she still had things to be ashamed of.

Bellamy poked his head out the door, looked both ways down the hall, and announced, "Coast is clear."

They both left the apartment, neither one of them particularly eager to leave each other. But as nice as it would have been, they couldn't stay in bed all day. "I'll see you later?" she said, reluctantly sauntering with him towards the closed door to her own apartment.

"Yeah."

She wasn't exactly sure what that would entail, whether it would be another night together or a few stolen moments at the club tonight. He had to work, after all. "Good luck at your audition," she said, hoping it would go his way this time.

"I don't need luck," he claimed, grinning. "I already got lucky."

She blushed, both flattered and turned on by that innuendo, and when he leaned in to kiss her . . . well, it was hard to stop at just one. She would have loved to have just kept kissing him, but if they didn't stop, then he was going to be late for his audition, and then there would be no way he'd get the part. So as much as it killed her to do so, she gave his chest a gentle push, urging him down the hall. He looked like he _really_ didn't want to go, but he went nonetheless. Of course, as she was unlocking her door, he darted back to her so he could give her one more quick kiss. It made her feel all giddy, but then he was gone, and she was left eagerly anticipating when her next kiss from him would be that day.

The _true_ shame of her walk of shame didn't fully hit her until she walked into her bedroom and saw Finn lying there on the bed, playing games on his phone. Then it hit full force.

"Hey, you're home," he said, setting his phone down.

"Yeah." She hadn't expected to see him. "So are you."

"Yeah, Cage gave one of my photo shoots to Roger, so . . ." He pushed himself up into a seated position, leaning back against the headboard, looking . . . kind of run-down and disappointed.

"Oh, of course he did," she muttered, wishing she could say that surprised her, but at this point, none of Cage's jerk moves surprised her.

"It's fine," Finn said, even though his tone indicated otherwise. "So how'd it go last night? Did you have fun?"

She nearly dropped her purse. "What?" What kind of question was that? Had he heard something? They'd made sure to be really quiet.

"With Harper," Finn added.

"Oh." Right, that was who she'd told him she was with. "We were studying."

He wrinkled his forehead, confused. "You said you were goin' out."

"I did?" She didn't remember that.

"Yeah, that's what you texted me."

She'd sent that text during a bathroom break, right before hopping back into bed with Bellamy, so needless to say, she'd been rushed. "Right, and then we studied afterward," she recovered, thinking quickly on her feet. "Well, she studied and I helped her." The more she said, the more she felt like it was obvious that she was lying, so she just summed it up with, "Yeah, it was fun," and hoped he wouldn't ask her anything more about it.

Slowly, he got out of bed, shuffling towards her, reaching out to wrap one arm around her waist. "I missed you." He tried to pull her close so he could plant a kiss on her, but she leaned back, wanting no part of that right now.

"I gotta shower," she said, and that one _wasn't_ a lie. Because she was pretty sure she still smelled like Bellamy.

The shower was nice, and _very_ much needed. She'd worked up a sweat last night, so her hair was disgusting, and it felt good to run some shampoo through it. She got all clean and fresh-feeling, even though her mind was still quite dirty. She showered longer than necessary, because she kept thinking about Bellamy, about how his hands felt on her hips, about how his mouth felt on her neck, and about how . . . other parts of him felt in other places.

When she got out of the shower, she wrapped a towel underneath her arms and stood at the sink in front of the mirror, still feeling a bit dazed and distracted as she ran a comb through her wet hair. Finn opened the bathroom door, letting in some of the colder air, and came up behind her, startling her.

"You look tired," he remarked.

"I am," she admitted, but that definitely wasn't the result of spending time with Harper.

"What's that?" he asked, moving her hair back over her shoulder.

"What?" She turned her head to the side, catching sight of an unmistakable sight on her the side of her neck: a hickey. " _Oh_. . ." That definitely hadn't been there when she'd left the house yesterday morning, but she saw no other way out of it than to pretend it had been. "God, Finn, look what you do to me."

"I did that?" he asked, confused.

"Yeah." Like hell he had.

"When?"

"Yesterday morning." She moved her hair back over her shoulder, concealing the hickey from his view. "Right as you were waking up. You were, like, all over me. Don't you remember?"

"Not really," he said, "but I'm usually pretty out of it in the morning." He shrugged. "Well, I like it. Let's everyone know you're taken." He gave her shoulder a squeeze, then left the bathroom, and she was so relieved when he was gone. Because that hickey was so obviously not from him, and she didn't know how she'd so easily gotten him to believe that flimsy lie. Maybe she was more of an actress than she realized.

She felt bad about lying to him. She didn't _like_ having to do it. But right now . . . she felt like it had to be done.

...

Clarke couldn't just sit around all day. She was too worked up about . . . everything, and she needed to talk to someone about it. Of course, her options were limited. She couldn't call Maya, because not only was Maya busy with college, but Maya was also oblivious to the fact that she and Bellamy had such feelings for each other. And this kind of thing was _definitely_ a girl-talk thing, so that meant Monty and Jasper weren't options, either. Thankfully, she had Harper. Quite possibly her only true friend in New York, besides Bellamy. But Bellamy was a little more than a friend now. A lot more.

She drove to Harper's campus and roamed around for a while, stopping to get some coffee and a snack to eat, and she was just thinking about calling or texting Harper to meet her somewhere when she happened to see her strolling by, books in hand.

"Harper!" she called, waving excitedly.

"Hey!" Harper exclaimed, spinning around.

Clarke scurried towards her, feeling like an overexcited Golden Retriever puppy.

"I love this," Harper said, "seeing my best and most talented friend on campus. Thinking about matriculating next year?"

"Not so much," Clarke admitted. "Can I talk to you?" Her mind was just _racing,_ and her body was still tingling, and she really, _really_ needed to talk.

"Sure. I've got fifteen minutes before my next class." Harper motioned for her to follow her to the steps outside the student union, and together, they sat down. "What's up?"

There was no sense in dragging it out, so Clarke just blurted, "I slept with Bellamy."

Harper's eyes bulged. "Oh my god."

"I know."

"No, not 'oh my god' as in 'that's surprising,' but . . . _finally_!" Her friend literally squealed. "How was it?"

"Good." Blushing, she couldn't contain her elation, because honestly, _good_ was such an understatement. "It was really good, actually. It was the best sex I've ever had in my entire life."

"Wow." Harper nodded, impressed. "Nice. I mean, I'd always heard through the grapevine—that grapevine being Roma and a few random bimbos who frequent the club—that Bellamy was _really_ skilled in bed. But it's nice to know that's all true."

"Yeah, I was just trying to keep up," Clarke confessed. She fancied herself as fairly good in bed, too, despite having considerably less experience. But Bellamy wasn't as selfish of a lover as Finn was, so that meant that she got a workout with him. "I felt like I couldn't walk afterwards," she admitted, sort of . . . proud of that fact.

"Oh, that's the best," Harper said longingly. "So how did this happen? When?"

"Yesterday." She shrugged. "We kinda just went for it." She really wasn't sure what had made her blurt out that she loved him, but she'd done it, and now . . . now there was no taking it back. There was no taking _any_ of it back.

"Well, it's about damn time," Harper said. "No offense to Finn, but you're better off with him as your ex and not your boyfriend."

Clarke's happy smile faded into a cringe. "That's the problem," she mumbled. "He's not my ex yet. I didn't break up with him."

"What?" Harper stared at her in disbelief, mouth dropping open. "Oh, Clarke . . . you cheated on him?"

"Kind of."

"No, there's no 'kind of' about it. You did."

Clarke knew that was true. Absolutely true. She'd cheated on her boyfriend. And it really didn't matter that he'd cheated on her first, because at the end of the day, she'd gone and done the same exact thing.

"Come on, you're better than that," Harper said.

"Apparently I'm not." As hard as it was to admit, she probably would have gone down this road with Bellamy even if Finn and Raven hadn't hooked up. Things between them had been accumulating for a while, and that night on the stage had changed things between them, to the point where all of this felt pretty inevitable. It didn't matter that their first kiss had been a part of a play, done for an audience. The fact of the matter was, ever since that moment, she'd wanted to kiss him some more.

"You have to tell him," Harper said.

"I know." She really did know that. "I will. Eventually."

Harper gave her a knowing, warning look. "Clarke . . ."

"Look, just do me a favor, okay? Don't tell anyone." She wasn't ready for Finn to know just yet. She had to figure out how to do it, when and where. And when she did, she had to be ready to deal with some backlash from people back home, maybe even her own friends and family. They all remembered how furious she'd been with her dad for cheating on her mom. And now, in a way, she was following in his footsteps.

"Of course I won't tell," Harper vowed. "But Clarke . . ." She shook her head disappointedly. "I don't know whether to be happy for you or worried about you now."

 _Don't be worried,_ Clarke thought. Even though she was ashamed, she still felt happy right now. So everything was going to be fine in the long run. She truly believed that.

...

"Let me see it."

Clarke leaned across the bar, tilting her head to the side so Bellamy could get a good look at the purplish mark he'd left on her neck.

"Huh." He chuckled a bit.

"You think it's funny?" she snapped. "I haven't had a hickey since high school." They'd been more of a source of pride back then.

"What can I say?" He grinned. "You taste so good."

Her whole body immediately tingled in anticipation when he said that, and suddenly, she felt proud of this hickey, too. "I guess I _am_ kind of eager to see what other marks you could leave on me," she said.

"What kind of kinky shit are you into, Clarke?" he teased.

"Oh, nothing, really," she admitted, blushing. "I don't even know where that came from." She wasn't looking to try out any _50 Shades of Grey_ shit; she just wanted lots of hot, passionate sex with this hot, passionate man. "I just . . . I can't stop thinking about you," she admitted, hoping it'd been on his mind all day today, too. "About us."

Apparently it had been, because he leaned in a bit and said, "I know," even going so far to put his hand atop hers. But he retracted it a moment later and said, "But Anya's staring daggers at us right now, so I gotta tend this bar."

She groaned in disappointment and let him get back to work, sitting there sipping on her non-alcoholic drink while he prepared drinks with sexual names for the other people at the bar. She tried not to stare, but it was hard to keep her eyes focused on anything else. His arms looked so good, and she was struck by the memory of grabbing onto them last night while he . . . while he just . . .

 _Aaannnd_ just like that she was all turned on again.

Finishing what was left of her drink, she slammed her empty glass down on the bar, just to get his attention. Eyes locked onto his, she slid down off the barstool and meandered towards the back exit. He watched her go, and she could tell he was thinking about following. Hopefully he did.

When she slipped out back into the alley, she was struck by how cold it was. And it was dark, the cramped space illuminated merely by the moonlight. She really didn't want to be out there alone for long, and thankfully, she wasn't. Because not even a minute later, the door opened again, and out came Bellamy.

"Why are you coming out here?" he asked.

"Because . . . I wanna _cum_ out here." She grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up against her, leaning back against the cold exterior of the building so that his larger body could encompass hers.

"You're crazy," he said before kissing her. His hands immediately came to rest on her waist, one of them slipping underneath her backside when she raised her leg and wrapped it around his hips. He moved in closer, his denim-clad groin pressing against her own, but he stopped kissing her suddenly when there was a noise. Just a soft thud on the dumpster a mere five or so feet away from them. He stepped back, bringing her with him, and craned his neck to look over to his right. Clarke did the same, and what she saw was . . . pretty disgusting. There was a woman dressed in fake leather and fishnet stockings on her knees, sucking the cock of some big, burly fat man. He looked to be getting off on it, but her . . . not so much. She was definitely a prostitute. There was no other reason for her to be . . . servicing him.

She flashed back to being in that alley with Roan, and Bellamy must have done the same. Because he said, "Come on. I can't fuck you out here," and quickly opened the back door and brought her into the club again.

As horny as she was, she had to admit, getting nailed next to a smelly dumpster in an alley where prostitutes did their work wasn't ideal. So putting the brakes on things was probably for the best.

"Come stay with me again tonight," he practically begged, rubbing his hand on the small of her back.

Oh, she wanted to. She _really_ wanted to. But . . . "I can't," she said, pouting. "Two nights in a row? Finn would be suspicious."

He groaned and rolled his eyes.

"I'm gonna work on ending things with him, I promise," she vowed. "But for now . . . is this okay?" It wasn't that she _liked_ juggling two guys at once, just that she was trying to figure out how to _stop_ juggling.

"It's gonna have to be okay," he said, sounding a bit . . . resigned to how she'd chosen to handle things. "I couldn't stay away from you before; I definitely can't stay away from you now." With his free hand, he caressed her face, and she was so caught up in the softness and tenderness of that gesture that she didn't even care if Anya or anyone else saw them. She just loved being touched by him.

Although if Anya _did_ see them . . . that was gonna be a problem, too.

Later that night, when she arrived home, she found the apartment dark, which was weird, because it wasn't that late.

"Finn?" she called, turning on the living room light. "You home?" No response, so she called for him again. "Finn?" Deciding to check the bedroom, she went down their short hallway and paused at their bedroom door, which was open just a crack.

"I don't know what to do, Dad," she heard him saying. "I feel like I'm fucking everything up."

She opened the door just a bit wider, wide enough to peer inside. It was dark in there, too, and Finn was sitting on the floor, facing the sliding balcony door, leaning back against the bed. He was on his phone, and it sort of sounded like he'd been crying.

"This job . . . isn't what I thought it'd be," he confessed to his father. "This place isn't what I thought it'd be."

 _Tell me about it,_ Clarke thought. Her vision of New York didn't match the reality, either.

"I feel like I'm spending more money than I'm making," Finn lamented. "I wanna help you out, but I'm not making that much." He sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand, and after a pause said, "Oh, Clarke? Yeah, she's . . . she's alright. She's got a few friends here."

She tensed, wondering if he had _any_ inclination at all just how _friendly_ she and Bellamy had become. Was he really so oblivious? And was that a good thing or a bad thing?

"But we haven't been . . ." Finn sighed heavily. "We've been struggling, too. And it's all my fault."

She frowned, wondering if that was . . . if that was completely true. Because as nice and as simple as it was to think of it as something that was all his fault . . . this thing between her and Bellamy hadn't just started out of nowhere. There were physical affairs, and there were emotional ones. And she'd been having the latter for a while now.

"I sorta got wrapped up in this thing with another girl," he revealed to his dad, "but that didn't work out. So Clarke's keepin' me at a distance, but . . . she's keepin' me goin', too."

Clarke's frown intensified. Keeping him going? What did he mean by that?

"I don't know what I'd do without her."

Oh. He meant _that._

Her stomach clenched.

"No, don't worry about me, Dad. I'll be fine," Finn went on to say, sounding as if the conversation were winding down. "No, you don't need to come see me. I'm not alone out here. I've still got Clarke."

She winced, feeling . . . horrible. And horribly guilty. Maybe it was irrational to feel that way over somebody who had lied to her and cheated on her, but . . . she did.

...

Bending over to the left, reaching for her ankle in order to stretch herself out, Clarke lamented, "I feel awful."

"Why?" Bellamy said, purposefully grabbing her hips for a moment as he came to stand behind her. "He cheated on you first, remember?"

She stood up, feeling like they looked way too suggestive standing together like that when they were out on the sidewalk, getting ready for their run. "Yeah, but now I've cheated on him, too," she pointed out. Maybe Bellamy couldn't understand that because he didn't have anyone he was dating.

"So come clean with him," he suggested, as if it were that simple. "Then you won't be cheating anymore."

She sighed, turning around to look at him. "What if I can't?" she said. "Not yet."

He looked disappointed, of course, but he just shrugged. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

Perhaps that was meant to be reassuring, but it kind of just made her feel even worse about herself. "God, I'm such a bad person," she said. "I'm stringing him along, and I'm not being fair to you, either."

He opened his mouth to respond to that, but she kept going, not giving him a chance to interject.

"I mean, what is this? What are we doing? Are we having an affair now, or . . ." There really wasn't anything else to call it.

"I guess," he admitted.

"You sound so casual about it."

"Well, call me crazy, but I don't feel bad." He moved in closer to her, closing the distance. "I don't owe anything to Finn. And neither do you, but . . ." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Clarke's eyes were drawn to it. "Look, I just wanna be with you. That's all that matters to me."

Even though she'd been set on feeling guilty today, hearing him say that just made her feel . . . grateful. Touched. So much so that, when he leaned in to kiss her, she just let him. More than that, she kissed him back. Right out there in public. On the sidewalk. Where anyone could drive by or walk by and see them. So not covert.

It was so hard to pull her mouth away, but eventually, she did. "We shouldn't be kissing out here," she reminded him.

"Where should we be kissing then?" he asked, grinning suggestively.

She couldn't help that her mind immediately ran wild with ideas about what they could do if they went somewhere where they could be alone.

They made no attempt to go for their run after that, but they still got a physical workout in together. Heading straight back to Bellamy's place seemed like the only thing they could do when they were both so horny for each other, so instead of running their usual route, they backtracked a few blocks and darted up the stairs, kicking off their shoes and tearing off their shirts before they even made it through the door.

A while later, after some incredibly arousing _and_ satisfying foreplay, Clarke found herself sitting in Bellamy's lap, riding his thick, hard cock, her chest sliding against his, slippery and sticky because of the sweat. His hands were wrapped around her back and waist, rubbing her sides, her spine, her ass as he helped guide her movements and get her to that sense of completion. And she _did_ feel complete. When she was with him like this, even though it was a new feeling, she was sure it was the best feeling in the world.

...

Arriving at Grounders that evening, Bellamy and Clarke were met with a disapproving glare from Anya, who appeared to be filling in for Bellamy behind the bar since he'd been running late.

"Bellamy, so nice of you to show," she growled sarcastically. "You, too, Clarke."

Beside her, Murphy just slinked away, as though he didn't want to be around for this, and Harper sat on one of the barstools, giving them a knowing look.

"Sorry," Clarke apologized, "I was . . . uh, we were . . ."

 _Having sex,_ Bellamy thought proudly. _Lots of it._ They'd barely done anything else with their afternoon, and he'd enjoyed the hell out of it. "I had to give Clarke a ride," he lied easily. "Had to go back home and get her."

There was a lot more Anya could have said, but she just looked at them sternly, then said to Clarke, "You'd better go get ready."

Like a kid who'd just gotten in trouble with the principal, Clarke said, "Yes, ma'am," even though she never called Anya _ma'am_ , and headed backstage.

Anya kept staring daggers at him as she left the bar and he took her place, picking up a few bottles to pour himself a shot.

"So how was that ride you gave her, Bellamy?" Harper asked once their boss was gone.

"What do you mean?" he said, playing dumb.

"Was she satisfied with the way your vehicle handled itself?"

He narrowed his eyes, determined not to own up to what she obviously knew to be true. "Look, I don't know what you're implying, but . . ."

"Oh, save it," she cut in exasperatedly. "She told me you guys hooked up."

She had? Well, then he couldn't very well play dumb then. "Oh."

"It's fine," Harper said. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Good. 'cause I don't really wanna get fired." There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Anya would can his ass if she got proof of this. It didn't matter that he'd worked there for years now. Her no relationships policy wasn't changing, not even for him.

"Is that why Clarke hasn't broken up with Finn yet," Harper inquired, "because she doesn't want Anya finding out about this?"

"No, she's just . . . she's young," he said, although maybe, on some level, she was thinking about his well-being, too, here. "This whole thing . . . it's confusing for her."

"But you're more than willing to keep hooking up with her while she's figuring it all out."

"Yeah." Over the years, he'd hooked up with plenty of chicks who had boyfriends, but that had always been a one-night thing. This was obviously something more. "I'm an asshole," he confessed, "I know it."

"No, I get it," Harper said. "You're not just attracted to her; you're _in love_ with her. It makes sense. I mean, I used to think I'd _never_ do anything long distance, but ever since I met Monty . . ." She trailed off, smiling adoringly as she thought of her boyfriend. "You do whatever you have to do to be with the person you love. Even if it's not ideal."

That pretty much summed it up, didn't it? He was willing to sneak around with Clarke and keep his relationship with her a secret, just because it was so much better than the alternative of not having a relationship with her at all. It wasn't like they could just go back in time and forget what it was like to sleep together. They'd gotten a taste of it; now they were addicted.

"Yeah, well, you know what's not gonna be ideal?" he said, motioning towards the stage. "Watching her get up there and strip tonight." He'd braced himself for it as best he could, but he wasn't like Finn. He couldn't stand back there and watch all these guys salivate over her and _not_ feel jealous. He didn't want them to get to see her naked. Possessive and territorial as it was, he wanted that for himself only. It was bad enough that he had to share her with Finn for now, but the thought of sharing her with all these losers, too? It made his blood boil.

"Yeah, but think of it this way," Harper said. "All these guys in here . . . they can look, but they can't touch. Now . . ." She smirked. "You can."

 _I can,_ he thought, sort of proudly. _I can._ When she put it like that, it made him feel a little better about the whole thing. He still didn't enjoy the thought of Clarke being a stripper, and the day she decided to quit was going to be a celebratory day for him. But until then, he'd stand behind that bar and watch her, just like he always had.

...

"It's gonna be so good," Clarke predicted eagerly as she and Bellamy strolled down the crowded sidewalk. "Harper's gonna be doing a back hook down below me, and I'm gonna be up higher doing a straddle spin." She grabbed onto the light post and started to twirl around, but it didn't go well. Those poles weren't the same as the poles she danced on, and she almost kicked a woman attempting to cross the street. "Oops, sorry," she apologized.

"Stop," Bellamy said, putting his hand on her shoulder to guide her away from the pole.

"What? Am I drawing too much attention to myself?" She couldn't help being excited about her routine.

"No, I just think maybe you should save the pole-dancing for the club," he advised.

Pouting, she mumbled, "I know you don't like it."

"I don't," he openly admitted.

"But it's gonna be a cool routine," she insisted. "It takes artistry, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

She really didn't want to spend the few hours they had together this evening arguing about her only current method of making money, so she was glad when they walked past a Victoria's Secret display window and she noticed some purple lingerie on a mannequin that would distract him. "Damn," she said. "Now there's something I bet you'd like."

He stopped and looked in the window, nodding his approval. "Yeah, that's nice. It'd look great on my girlish figure."

Laughing, she whacked his shoulder.

"Nah, it'd look good on you," he said.

"Is that a hint?" she surmised. "You want me to get it?"

"You get whatever you want," he said. "I do like it, though."

So did she, but being from Victoria's Secret meant that it was probably kind of expensive. But she _wanted_ to look sexy for Bellamy, and what was sexier than a bra and panties from the sexiest lingerie store to ever exist?

"Clarke?"

She whipped her head to the side when she heard someone say her name. And lo and behold, there was Raven, coming down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, also with a man at her side.

"And . . . Bellamy," Raven said, obviously never thrilled to see him. "Hi."

"Hey, Raven," Clarke said, trying not to sound awkward, even though . . . fuck, it was _awkward._ To be standing face to face with the girl your boyfriend had slept with behind your back? It wasn't the greatest feeling. "Good to see you," she said, reminding herself that Raven had been a victim of Finn's two-timing ways, too. She really couldn't offer much more in the way of pleasantries, though, and Bellamy obviously wouldn't be any help with that. So she turned her attention to the good-looking African American man who seemed to be accompanying Raven, someone she didn't recall ever seeing before. "Who's this?" she asked.

"Oh, this is Miles Shaw," Raven introduced. "But everyone calls him Zeke."

"Why?" Clarke asked.

With a shrug, Zeke or Miles or whatever his name was replied, "I don't know," and then smiled. "Hi, nice to meet you."

"You, too." Clarke couldn't help but notice that he had his hand on the small of Raven's back. They looked . . . kind of cozy.

"This is Clarke and Bellamy," Raven went on. "They did a photo shoot for us last week."

"Yeah, any idea when I'm gonna get a paycheck for that?" Bellamy grumbled unhappily.

"I'm sure it's coming," Raven said.

"Oh, I'm sure it is." He rolled his eyes, obviously not believing that.

"Um, did you guys meet on set then?" Clarke jumped back in to ask, trying to prevent another Bellamy/Raven argument before it started.

"No. I know he looks like a model, but we actually met online," Raven explained.

"Oh." That seemed . . . so ordinary. She'd always pictured someone as beautiful and outgoing as Raven meeting men at parties and work and other fancy, showy stuff.

After a few more seconds of awkward silence, Raven announced, "Well, we've got reservations, so we gotta get going." She glanced between them and the store window curiously and added, "But have fun . . . doing whatever it is you're doing."

Clarke laughed nervously and waved to them as she said, "Bye." They were on their way, a nice, young new couple about to go have dinner in what was probably a nice, new restaurant. "Huh," she said, watching them walk away, hand in hand now. "That's interesting." Either that guy had genuinely sparked Raven's interest, or he was a rebound after Finn. "Do you think she knows, though?"

"Knows what?" Bellamy asked, stepping in front of her.

"About us."

"You mean that we're screwing each other now?" he said bluntly.

"I just feel like we were really obvious." Of all the places someone could have run into them, it just _had_ to be outside of a Victoria's Secret store.

"How would she know?" Bellamy said, reaching down to link his hands with hers. "It's not like we were tearing each other's clothes off." He grinned suggestively. "Although, if you wanna do that . . . I'm sure there's a dressing room inside this store."

She definitely wanted to squeeze something in with him before their time together tonight was over, but she wasn't sure about the dressing room. They were so notorious for their unflattering mirrors.

Glancing cautiously down the street, unable to see Raven and that Shaw guy anymore, she gave in to her yearning and leaned forward to give Bellamy a kiss. It was supposed to have been just one, but she giggled when it started to turn into many. And when he pulled her into the store, she didn't protest.

The dressing room would do.

...

Clarke's legs felt shaky when she arrived home later that evening. Bellamy had straight up fucked her, and it was the first time they'd done it standing up. He hadn't even bothered with foreplay, because he hadn't had to. The semi-public location had been more than enough to turn her on.

She was pretty sure they were _never_ going to be allowed back in that store again, but oh, well. She'd had fun.

"Hey, babe," Finn said when she came inside.

"Hey." She surveyed the sight of him sprawled out on the couch, wearing flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt with holes in the armpits, and she really wished he would at least . . . try a little harder. She didn't dress up every day, but she didn't walk around looking like a homeless person, either. Finn was wearing the same clothes he'd woken up in. The only difference was that his white t-shirt now had a tinge of orange on the chest. Probably Cheetos or something. "You look . . . comfy," she said, noting the remote in his hand and the beer bottle down on the floor, right within his reach.

"Yeah, I've been kinda lazy today," he said, slowly sitting up. He yawned, stretched out a bit, and then noticed the sack in her hand. "Ooh, looks like you went shopping," he noted, getting to his feet. He closed the distance between them and asked, "What you got in there?"

 _No,_ she thought, disappointed when he took out the purple lingerie from the store window. It wasn't for him.

"Nice." His eyes lit up excitedly. "You gonna put this on, give me a little show?"

She did shows all the time, but that didn't mean she was wanting to do one for him. "Actually, it's for Harper," she lied. "She asked me to pick up something she could wear for Monty during spring break."

"Oh." A flash of disappointment crossed Finn's eyes, and he dropped the garments back in the sack. "Why didn't she just go buy something herself?"

"Well, she's busy with school and everything." God, it was a bit alarming how it was becoming so easy to lie to him, but she didn't feel like dwelling on it. "So what'd you do all day?" she asked. "Besides . . . this." _This_ looked utterly pathetic. Had he even left the apartment?

"Not much," he said. "I ordered pizza, though, so there's some leftovers in the fridge."

 _Great, pizza,_ Clarke thought, setting her sack down on the counter. _Just what Finn needs._ She wasn't so shallow that she expected her boyfriend to have a perfect body or anything, but it was a little frustrating to see him letting himself go when she was working out more than she'd ever worked out in her life before. And Bellamy . . . well, Bellamy, definitely _wasn't_ letting himself go.

"So guess what," she said, opening up the refrigerator while he went to lie back down on the couch. "I ran into Raven while I was out shopping."

"Oh, yeah?" He tried to sound disinterested, but she noted the upward inflection in his voice.

"Yeah." She peeked inside the box, wrinkling her nose when she saw black olives on the pizza. Finn knew that was one of her least favorite toppings and she wouldn't touch a single one of those slices now. "She was with a guy she met online."

"A guy?" he echoed.

"Yeah." She shut the fridge and turned around, interested in gauging his reaction to this new . . . development. "He looked like he could be a model or something. Seemed like they were really hitting it off." It didn't hurt to rub a little salt in the wound.

"Well, that's good," Finn said, looking at the TV screen instead of at her when he spoke the words. "Good for her."

Clarke narrowed her eyes at him, wishing he'd react differently. If he got mad or jealous or demanded to know what the hell she was doing with him, then at least she'd know that his heart was still torn, that part of him still very much desired a woman he no longer had. But being so calm about it and okay with it . . . it didn't help her situation. It would've been a hell of a lot easier to break up with Finn and own up to her own wrongdoings in all of this if he wasn't actually trying to be a decent boyfriend again. It didn't matter how hard he tried, of course. Whatever feelings she had left for him were a shadow of what they used to be. But if he still had feelings for her, and now she was the one cheating . . . was she really any better than him?


	41. Chapter 41

_Chapter 41_

Valentine's Day at the club was usually crowded, but even last year, with Ontari's name at the helm of all the entertainment, it hadn't been _this_ crowded. Bellamy could barely even squeeze through the crowd to get to the bar. The place was packed, and everyone was already drinking a lot and having a great time. It wasn't just guys, either. There were women there _with_ their guys, women there with each other, and even some women there alone. But the men were still the majority. By far.

"Pretty crowded," he commented to Murphy as he got right into the swing of his shift.

"What'd you expect?" Murphy said as he poured a drink for a customer who already had two full shot glasses in front of him.

He'd expected this, on some level, but that didn't mean he hadn't hoped for fewer people. "It wasn't this crowded last year," he said.

"Nope," Murphy agreed. He told the guy he was serving to take it easy before he downed any of those shots, and he shoved a bowl of chips at him, too.

"Where's Anya?" Bellamy asked, scanning the room. He didn't see her. Usually she was walking all around that place, inspecting everything, making sure nothing was going to prevent the night from going off without a hitch.

Murphy shrugged, working his way down the bar, then stopped and pointed across the room. "There's Luna, though."

Bellamy looked over to where he was pointing and spotted Luna's wild hair. She wasn't Anya, but she was the next best thing. He left Murphy and Niylah to fend for themselves at the bar and made his way through the packed crowd towards her.

"Hey," he said, completely cutting in a conversation she was having with the DJ. "These people gonna be kept under control or what?"

She sighed anxiously and said, "I'm gonna do my best."

No, no, he didn't like the sound of that. "What's that mean?"

"It means I'm in charge tonight," she said. "Anya had a family emergency. She had to fly back home this morning."

Immediately, Bellamy grew tense. So Anya wasn't even there? On one of the busiest nights of the year? On a night that could easily get out of control? "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered.

Luna gave him an incredulous look. "Yes, Bellamy, your boss's father should be able to recover from the heart attack he just had today. Thank you for asking."

He hadn't meant to be a jerk, but right now, his priority was Clarke and making sure she was safe tonight. "Sorry," he said.

"Just go do your job," she told him. "Everything's gonna go fine tonight."

He didn't _want_ to go do his job, though. He wanted to do the bouncers' job. He wanted to be able to toss anyone who even looked at Clarke the wrong way out of that club. But dammit, he was just a bartender. He couldn't do shit for her behind that bar.

Even though he wasn't happy about any of this, Bellamy trudged back to the bar, earning an impatient look from Niylah. She and Murphy were swamped. They needed his help.

"I got a bad feeling about this," he said to Murphy. "Anya usually keeps people in line."

Murphy handed him a bottle of vodka and an empty glass. "Just remember," he said, "that's not your job."

Bellamy looked down at the bottle in his hand, not sure if Murphy had given him that for himself or for a customer. So he decided to pour a glass for himself, because why the hell not?

Things were so busy, he didn't even get a chance to go peek backstage and see how Clarke was doing. Earlier today, she'd seemed really excited about tonight. Even though people didn't come to that club for the dancing, she really _loved_ the dancing element of what they did. She'd tried showing him bits and pieces of the routine, even without a pole to demonstrate on, and she seemed especially excited to get to dance with Harper again.

But Bellamy couldn't quell his concern enough to be excited. He was never truly excited for her to do this.

When Luna got up onstage, she got a few catcalls from some of the men. She took it all in stride and waved at them, but she politely declined when one of them hollered out that she should dance tonight. Anya never would have put up with that shit. And no one would have dared say that to Anya.

"Alright, we're about to get started," Luna said. "Happy Valentine's Day! Raise your glass if you're single tonight!"

A loud cheer arose from the vast majority of the crowd as they all raised their glasses in the air.

"Well, whether you're here on your own or you're attached to a special someone tonight, the Grounders Girls have a hell of a show prepared for you," Luna raved. "Now who wants them to give you a little love?"

More cheering. Bellamy could hardly stand it.

"Bring 'em out!" Luna high-tailed it off the stage, and the lights dimmed down as the unmistakable beats of "Tainted Love" started to play. Everyone in the crowd immediately recognized the song and started to move along with it as all the girls took the stage. It was very reminiscent of their big Halloween show, where they all performed at once. There were multiple poles set up for them, and they were all wearing the same costume: a tight red dress that was so loose and low-cut in the front that their tits were practically spilling right out.

The big difference between the Halloween dance and this one was that Clarke was front and center for this one. She was the one leading the other girls, even Harper. There were lots of parts of the dance where the girls touched each other, and much of it was centered on Clarke. It looked like the kind of thing that could have served as a promo for some huge lesbian orgy porno. By some miracle, though, the clothes stayed on. Harper's dress had a wardrobe malfunction, and the top fell down, but she just went with it, and the crowd seemed to think it was just part of the routine. They loved it, of course. Just like they loved the way they could see up underneath Clarke's dress when she kicked her legs out into a V. They loved everything about what they were seeing.

Bellamy was able to concentrate on pouring drinks again when the individual performances started up. Vivian was the first to kick things off, and though Bellamy didn't watch her closely, he could tell she'd gotten pretty good. When Harper left, she'd be the one to step up and fill that void. That was how things worked around here. When one girl moved on or got pregnant or got really dead like Ontari had, then they just went right on to the next one. It was just a cycle. An endless cycle.

Roma got to perform after that, and watching her . . . Bellamy just felt bad for her. She didn't have that same spark she used to have. Wherever it had gone, it didn't seem to be coming back. And the audience noticed it. More people came over to the bar to refill their drinks when she was dancing, and not nearly as much money rained on the stage for her as it had for Vivian. As it would for Clarke. Roma was on her way out of the cycle, too, even though she didn't want to be.

Harper came next, bouncing out onto the stage in an obnoxiously frilly Cupid costume, complete with a bow and arrow and wings. It fit her personality, though, fit her whole brand. The music was peppy and upbeat, and so was her routine. She smiled cheekily and played around by shooting fake arrows into the audience. Clearly a _lot_ of the people there were struck by Cupid's arrow, because she got a lot of cash. Harper's popularity wasn't dying out like Roma's was. If she'd wanted to, she could have stayed there and worked for years. But she had other plans for her life, other ambitions. And Bellamy was proud of her for that.

There was a definitely a buzz in the air following Harper's routine, especially when Luna announced that they'd be taking a short break. Ten or fifteen minutes. Most of the people spent that ten of fifteen minutes crowding the bar, demanding more shots, even though they'd already had enough. They got pissed at Bellamy when he poured them the wrong ones. It was a rookie mistake, one he didn't usually make, but he was so distracted. In the back of his mind, he knew that two things were coming up: Clarke's performance with Harper, which was _definitely_ a big draw, and Clarke's performance alone. Which was the other big draw. Clarke was the new Number One. And everybody there knew it. He'd known it for a while now. Didn't make it any easier of a pill to swallow.

When it came time for Clarke and Harper to take the stage together, there wasn't anyone left at the bar. Everyone was crowding in closer to get a better look. Bellamy wasn't expecting the song they were dancing to to be "Kiss from a Rose," but he wasn't opposed to it. Better a romantic song than some objectifying one. Fittingly, they both glided out onto the stage in lingerie that had been decorated to look as if it were made from rose petals. They were probably fake, but they looked real. And Clarke looked _real_ good. It was so torturous to see her up there now, because he knew what her body looked like when it wasn't covered by anything. And he didn't want all those other people to know, too.

She hadn't been kidding about the actual dancing. It was actually pretty mesmerizing, and not just because they were two hot girls doing seductive moves. Sure, there was a generous amount of hip-shaking, body-rolling, and leg-spreading, but it was all actually pretty tasteful in the way it was done. And the spins and tricks they were doing together looked more elegant than exploitative. They did some separately, where the other was doing something on the ground while one spun. They did some together, too, including some where they mirrored each other and some where they wrapped their legs together. At one point, Harper knelt down, and Clarke sort of used her thigh and shoulder to step up onto the pole and just meld herself around it like water. At another point, Harper wasn't even holding onto the pole at all. She held onto Clarke's hands, and Clarke held onto the pole with her legs. And together, the two of them spun. Not one piece of clothing came off, but still, they had the attention of everyone in that room. They didn't need to end it with a kissing gimmick this time, either. As they both settled onto the stage and the music and lights faded, it was enough. More than enough. Everyone loved it. And Bellamy had to admit, he loved it, too. When it was done like that, when it was more about the dancing and less about the stripping, he didn't feel quite as worried for her.

Unfortunately, the good feelings didn't last for long. Because Clarke performed again by herself next, and he knew clothes would be coming off for that one. Especially since she was dressed up in a thin, practically sheer, white dress as Aphrodite. He'd done his Greek mythology learning back in the day. He knew very well that Aphrodite was often naked.

It was definitely a more seductive routine, with a more seductive song to match. He wasn't sure what it was, but he'd heard her singing it in the bathroom the other night. Something about "Alrighty, Aphrodite." He actually dug the song, and of course on a personal level he loved the way she worked that pole. His girl was hot; his girl was sexy. His girl could put on one _hell_ of a show. But he didn't _want_ her to.

Before the clothes came off, all the blonde hair came down. Clearly she had in some hair extensions to make her fit the part she was playing. In between spins and tricks, she lowered the dress to the floor, stepped out of it gracefully and sensually, and then covered herself up with her hair before lowering her panties to the floor. The crowd seemed to love that she was naked but hiding herself from them, and she played it up, looking at them as temptingly as the real goddess of love probably would have. Eventually, when she got back up on the pole and her hair started flying all around, everyone got a glimpse of that beautiful body of hers, and that was when the money really started to accumulate up on that stage.

None of the other performances really could measure up to that one, and it didn't even seem like the other girls were trying to. People watched, and people paid them some tips, too, but clearly they were all just waiting for the finale, when all the girls came back up onto the stage in those red dresses from the opening number. They did one more routine, and it ended with Clarke highest up on the center pole, Vivian and Harper on either side of her. The other girls wrapped themselves around the bottom of the pole and around each other towards the edge of the stage. But they all knew Clarke was the star.

When it was all over, Bellamy honestly felt relieved. "Thank God that's done," he mumbled, hoping only Murphy would hear him. But Murphy was busy doing the job of two people (Bellamy knew he wasn't helping out very much tonight), and the only guy who seemed to hear him say that was the guy sitting across the counter. Big, burly type, probably the twice the age of most of these girls.

"Nah, I wish they'd dance all night," he said, scratching his beard. "So pretty and . . . flexible." Licking his lips, he grinned and said, "I just wanna bring 'em home and-"

"You should stop now," Bellamy warned him. Right now, he couldn't handle any of this guy's perverted fantasies.

It got worse after that, only about ten minutes after the finale performance. Because that was when Luna got back up on stage. "At this time," she said, "for a _very_ special Valentine's gift from us to you, we'd like to give you a chance to mix and mingle with the girls."

"What?" Bellamy spat. Since when did the girls mix and mingle with anybody?

"Please remember to abide by the rules of our club," Luna reminded everyone. "Anyone in violation of our rules will be asked to leave."

 _Shit,_ Bellamy thought, feeling the night spiraling even further out of his control. _Shit, shit, shit._

Everyone cheered and whistled as the girls came back out. But this time, they weren't up on stage. They came out of the back room, all dressed in different costumes now. Harper led the way, smiling and waving at people, and cell phones immediately came out to snap pictures.

"Clarke didn't tell me about this," Bellamy grumbled.

"I can see why." Murphy handed him a shot.

He downed it, even though he tried not to drink while he was working. Mingling with the crowd? Nope. He didn't like that one bit.

Clarke was towards the back of the line, but when she passed by the bar, she looked at him and promised, "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

God, he really wanted to believe that.

Drinks were pretty much an afterthought once the girls came out. They diverted everyone's attention. Of course, Clarke and Harper were the more popular ones, so the biggest crowds of people formed around them. Bellamy watched closely, making sure nobody got too close, and thankfully, nobody did. At least not yet. But he wasn't sure how long this mingling shit was gonna last. The longer it wore on, the more brazen people would become.

Different girls had different ideas of mingling. Even though the club had a look-but-don't-touch policy, Vivian disregarded it right away. She sat on the lap of that big, burly guy at the bar. Roma took a small group of men in the corner and started showing them how she could clap. But not with her hands. She made her ass clap for them. She even let a few of them spank her.

It was getting out of control fast, and Bellamy kept shooting Luna looks across the club. This wasn't the kind of thing she was prepared to supervise. Anya _probably_ would have been able to keep a better handle on things. Luna just wasn't stern enough. When a couple of the girls started giving lap dances, she just let them. Niylah even went up to her and questioned her about it, but Bellamy watched as she just shrugged helplessly, as if to say there was nothing she could do about it.

But that was complete crap. There was a lot she could do. She could get back up on that stage and say this period of mixing and mingling was over. She could get the bouncers involved. She could pull the girls aside and remind them that they worked at Grounders, not Polis. That fucked up shit they did over there wasn't what they did here. But she wasn't doing any of that. She was a choreographer, not a manager, and she shouldn't have gone through with this without Anya.

Bellamy halfheartedly tended that bar, keeping his eyes on Clarke pretty much the whole time. That was harder to do when Vivian lay down on the bar and let guys start taking body shots off her stomach. Bellamy had to move so he could keep Clarke in his sights. Thankfully, the crowd around her and Harper had dissipated a bit. They weren't going quite as wild as the other girls, so even though they were the favorites, people were drawn to the more provocative behavior. She and Harper were mostly standing around talking to people, but it was so weird with all those people being fully clothed and neither of the girls wearing much. Harper was in some lacy red corset get-up, and Clarke . . . he wasn't sure how Clarke's white feathery bra top and thong were supposed to relate to Valentine's Day, but she was wearing it nonetheless. Just that and high heels.

Both Clarke and Harper started to take pictures with people, most of which were innocent enough—just smiles and harmless poses—but one guy actually had the balls to try to kiss Clarke's cheek. She leaned back and pushed him away, and he was pretty sure he heard her say, "Nope, none of that." For which he was relieved. But she still took the picture with him anyway, and that frustrated him.

There were some girls in the vicinity, too, who looked pretty butch, so even though Bellamy didn't want to stereotype, he felt pretty confident assuming they were lesbians. They _loved_ Clarke and kept trying to get her to show them how to do some of her signature dance moves. They failed miserably, of course, but they loved watching her demonstrate. Clarke even started letting them slip dollar bills into the side of her thong. Harper knew better than to take it that far.

 _Screw this,_ Bellamy thought, done just standing back behind that bar and watching. This place was getting out of control, and he wasn't gonna let Clarke get swept up in that. She was the youngest girl there _and_ the most popular. Dangerous combination.

Marching across the club, Bellamy interrupted right as Clarke was demonstrating how she shook her hips up on stage. Grabbing her arm, he said, "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," she said, smiling at the girls. "I'll be back," she told them, and much to his relief, she followed him without complaint to the furthest, darkest corner of the club, where they could talk somewhat privately.

"What the hell is this?" he growled.

"Relax," she said, squeezing his bicep. "Girls. I like girls."

"Yeah, I know." He didn't have any problem with that. "And girls like you. And guys like you. Everybody likes you."

"But I'm just playing the part," she reminded him. "Girl Next Door. It's all just acting, just like what you do."

"I'm not jealous, if that's what you're thinking," he assured her.

"Good." She smiled. "Because I don't even know these people, but I _love_ you."

"I love you, too," he said, "and that's why I hate seeing you like this."

"Like what?" She frowned, looking around. "I'm not giving lap dances or letting people take shots off my body. I'm taking pictures. And talking with people. And demonstrating dance moves."

"Look at you!" he snapped, motioning towards her beautiful but _so_ scantily-clad body. "You've got money in the side of your g-string, Clarke. I mean . . ." He trailed off, unable to fully articulate why that worried him so much.

Fortunately, he didn't really have to. Clarke lowered her head, gave herself a long, hard look, and it was like something just _clicked_. She looked a bit embarrassed, maybe even surprised by herself. It'd been a busy night, and she'd been making some good money. Maybe she'd just gotten caught up in it.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, feeling like he was . . . almost slut-shaming her, when that wasn't his intention. "I don't mean to . . . You can do what you wanna do, but . . ."

"No, you're right," she said. "I don't wanna . . ." She wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. "I don't want people to think that this is who I am. I needed to hear this."

 _Good,_ he thought, reaching out to stroke her cheek. The longer she paraded around out here, the more the people who came to this club were going to expect this of her _every single night._ What the other girls did was up to them, but she had to pull the plug on this.

"Look," he said, motioning to the stage, where Harper was doing a few last spins on the pole before waving to the crowd and disappearing back behind the curtain. "See what she just did?"

Clarke nodded.

"That's what you can do. If you want."

"Okay." Clarke smiled gratefully at him and said, "Thanks." Then she plucked all of the money out of her costume and handed it over to him. He pocketed it for her while she strode up on stage and waved much in the same way Harper had. The lesbian girls screamed at her to come back, and _many_ of the men groaned in disappointment.

And then the chanting started up.

"Number One! Number One! Number One!"

Bellamy felt his stomach clench, and he just stood there, listening to that, two words echoing off the walls. Clarke must have been taken aback by it, but her sweet smile never faltered as she said goodbye and disappeared behind the curtain.

Even after she was gone, the chanting continued.

...

Not even her father's unexpected heart attack could keep Anya away from the club for long. She was already back the next day, probably having gotten no sleep whatsoever, and she wasted no time calling all the girls in for an emergency meeting. They knew what it was about before she even launched in, so they all kind of just sat in the rehearsal room with their heads bowed in shame while she paced back and forth in front of them angrily.

"Where do I even _begin_ with everything I heard about last night?" she ranted.

Harper was the only one brave enough to speak up. "Begin with Luna," she suggested. "She was in charge."

"She and I have spoken, trust me," Anya assured her. "And she understands that this is _never_ to happen again. But do you know what disappoints me even more? All of you."

Clarke shifted uncomfortably. She'd known going into last night's festivities that it had the potential to get out of control, and for many of the girls, it had.

"You know the rules," Anya huffed. "Hell, you know them better than anyone. You're the _product._ It's your bodies on the line here."

Clarke folded her arms across her chest. Her body was fine, but it was sort of unsettling to think about how easily one of those men at the club last night could have just pulled her down atop his lap and put his hands all over her. Having Bellamy there was like having a safety vest, but not all of the girls had that. And that made her feel bad for them.

"Your instructions were to mix and to mingle, not to give lap dances and spankings and—and blow jobs!" Anya fumed.

Again, Harper spoke up to be the voice for the group. "Nobody was giving blow jobs."

Anya threw her hands up in the air exasperatedly. "Well, it sounds like that's the direction things were headed in."

 _Were they?_ Clarke wondered. She wouldn't have done that, but if they'd been offered enough money, maybe some of the other girls would have.

"Vivian, you sure had some choice photos end up online," Anya informed the very embarrassed girl sitting next to Clarke. "And Roma . . . how do you think your child would react to seeing video of his mother ass-clapping up on Instagram?"

Roma literally hid her face.

"Because it's all there," Anya said. "And I could go on."

Clarke's stomach rumbled nervously as she worried what photos of her had ended up online. She hadn't taken any inappropriate ones, but she'd taken _plenty_ with people she didn't even know. What if they somehow circulated back to someone in Arkadia? She had to be more careful about things here. Just because she was in a different state didn't mean that word of her newfound lifestyle couldn't spread like wildfire.

"Anya, I get what you're saying," Harper acknowledged, "but not everyone here was doing that stuff."

"Yes, I know," Anya said. "Thank _you_ , Harper,for at least having standards. The same kind of standards this club is supposed to have."

The more Anya lectured them, the more Clarke realized . . . she was kind of right. If they let their standards dip too far, then people would no longer be satisfied with what they usually got from them.

"If you wanna whore yourself out to customers, there are other clubs for that," Anya said. "Hell, there are _street corners_ for that."

Clarke flinched, thinking back to that night with Roan in that alley. But as quickly as the memory had appeared in her mind, she pushed it away.

"If you work here, you're expected to be professional and classy _at all times,_ " Anya reminded them heatedly. "Whether I'm in charge or Luna's in charge, you do your damn job the way we'vetaught you to. Understood?"

Everyone nodded sheepishly. Apparently that wasn't enough for Anya, because she barked, " _Understood_?" more emphatically.

"Yes," they all said.

Anya made glaring eye contact with each one of them, except for Harper, and said, "This never happens again. And if it does, you're gone."

It was a totally legitimate threat, and they all knew it. So everyone just sat there, stone-faced, waiting for her to tell them they could leave. Finally, she motioned for them to head out, so they all slowly got to their feet and sulked towards the door. Clarke was on her way out with Harper, prepared to go grab a quick lunch and have some much-needed girl time when Anya called her back. "Clarke, wait a minute."

She stopped, cast a quick, worried glance at her friend, and then made her way back towards Anya while Harper and the others left. She waited until they were all out of the room to say, "Look, I don't know what you heard, but I kept it classy last night, too." She thought about the money tucked into the side of her thong and quietly added, "For the most part."

Anya nodded slowly. "That's what I heard."

"Oh. Good." She wrinkled her forehead, confused. "Then what's the problem?"

"I don't know, Clarke," Anya said, crossing her arms stubbornly. "Is there a problem? You tell me."

She stared at her boss quizzically, really and truly not following where she was going with this. "I don't understand," she said.

Anya sighed heavily and revealed, "Luna told me Bellamy wasn't very pleased about what he was seeing last night."

 _Oh, crap,_ she thought. The last thing she wanted was for Bellamy to be brought into all of this. "Well, you know him," she said, trying to sound all flippant. "Always trying to look out for me."

Anya narrowed her eyes suspiciously, shaking her head as though she just didn't believe that was all there was to it anymore. "Is there something going on between the two of you or not?" she questioned.

 _Oh, yeah,_ Clarke thought. _So much._ But of course she tried to sound surprised, maybe even a little offended. "What? No," she replied. "I have a boyfriend."

"Again, I ask the question."

Clarke sighed, too, mentally schooling herself to remain calm. "There's nothing going on between me and Bellamy," she lied. "I mean, we're close, yeah. We're really good friends. But we're not breaking any of your rules." As memories of his hands on her hips and his lips on the side of her neck invaded her mind, she offered one more false assurance after another. "I promise."

...

Clarke picked away at the French fries in her chicken strip basket, not at all impressed by the food she'd ordered while out to lunch with Harper that afternoon. "I think Anya's onto me and Bellamy," she admitted, glad that she had a friend to confide in about all of this.

Harper snorted, "Well, yeah, she's not stupid."

Popping another soggy, not at all crunchy French fry into her mouth, Clarke groaned, "Are we seriously being that obvious?"

"No." Harper reached over and took a few of Clarke's fries for herself. "I actually think you've kept it pretty covert. But it's the eyesex, you know. You guys do that all the time."

 _Eyesex,_ Clarke registered, not even sure she really knew what that was. _Got it._ "Then I will try to make my eyes less sexy," she declared.

Harper laughed a little. "It's more like the way you guys look at each other," she explained. "And I don't really think you can control that."

No, they really couldn't, could they? She supposed she could just try to look at him _less,_ but that sounded pretty impossible, too. "Well, we definitely weren't having any eyesex last night," she grumbled. "I think he was kinda mad at me."

"For the dolla-dolla bills?" Harper guessed.

"Yeah." Truth be told, she was kind of mad at herself for allowing that. "And because I didn't tell him we were gonna do that whole crowd interaction thing. I just . . ." She pushed her chicken strip basket across the table, more than willing to let Harper eat the rest of it. "It's not like he's jealous," she said. "It's more . . ."

"Territorial?" her friend filled in.

"No, not even that. Because that would imply he's being possessive, and he's not. He just . . . he worries about me so much." And she loved him for that. Really, she did. But it was hard to figure out who she was supposed to be when she was being the Girl Next Door, because that wasn't the same person she was when she was with him.

"Well, of course he worries," Harper said. "I mean, think about it from his point of view: He loves a girl who's loved by a _lot_ of men. But he loves you in a different way. So that's gotta be hard on him."

"Yeah." She felt like she was really asking a lot out of Bellamy when it came to being understanding. She needed him to _understand_ that she had a job to do, just like she needed him to _understand_ that she wasn't ready to break up with her current boyfriend just yet. But she would. "It was never hard for Finn, though," she pointed out.

"Maybe because Finn doesn't love you as much," Harper suggested.

Even though that very well could have made her feel bad, instead . . . it actually made Clarke smiled a bit. Because this whole thing with Bellamy . . . it was new, and it was unlike anything she'd ever had before.

"Look, you feel bad about upsetting him last night, don't you?" Harper said.

"Yeah, I do."

Breaking an undercooked French fry in half, Harper shrugged nonchalantly before popping it into her mouth. "Then make it up to him."

The words soaked their way through Clarke's mind, and a slow, mischievous grin crept across her face. Because she had a lot of _very_ fun ideas for how she could do that.

...

Clad merely in high heels and the purple lingerie from their shopping excursion at Victoria's Secret the other day, Clarke strode out of the bathroom confidently, enjoying the immediately horny look that found its way to Bellamy's freckled face. She'd sat him down in one of the chairs at his small kitchen table and told him not to move, and indeed, he hadn't. She had her captive audience of one, which was so much better than a captive audience of one hundred.

"What's this?" he said, eyes gleaming eagerly.

"A private show." She stopped at the kitchen counter to press play on a 'sexy songs' playlist she'd put together after lunch with Harper today. Every couple needed their own sexy songs playlist, and she intended to make hers and Bellamy's very long.

He motioned to what she was wearing and asked, "Is that the-"

"Yes, it is," she interrupted, snapping her bra strap. The bra was actually a little small, so it kind of felt like her breasts were falling out. But Bellamy wouldn't mind that, so neither did she.

"You don't have to do this," he said as she started to circle around his chair seductively.

"I know," she said. "But I want to." Stopping in front of him, she slowly swayed her hips from side to side, enjoying that aroused look in his eyes. And he was already getting hard. She could see the bulge forming in his jeans.

"See, at the club," she said, turning around to give him a better view of her backside, "when I get up there on that stage . . ." She backed up carefully and sat down on his lap, circling her ass against his crotch, trying to interject her first-ever lap dance with the same confidence she had up on the pole. "That's work," she finished up, grinding back against him. "This is pleasure."

His hands came up to rest on her hips, and she was struck by how large they were. And his skin looked so dark against her own. She loved the contrast.

"You know I'm not mad at you, right?" he murmured in her ear. "And even if I was, it wouldn't take something like this to get me to calm down."

Turning around, she swung her legs over her lap so that she was straddling him, and she continued her sensual, undulating movements against his groin. "Oh, I hope _nothing_ about this calms you down," she said.

Grinning, he admitted, "It doesn't," and his hands traveled around to cup her backside and give it a good squeeze through the thin material of her panties.

"I will never ever do this for anyone except you," she promised, getting off on turning him on. "The Girl Next Door is all an act. You know the real me."

The look on his face made it seem like he was glad to hear that.

Still circling and moving her hips, causing that bulge in his jeans to tent up even more, she kissed him, wasting no time making it a _deep_ kiss. She brushed her tongue against his and even nibbled playfully on his lower lip. He tasted like coffee. Which was good. He was gonna need to be caffeinated for everything she had in mind.

Pulling back just slightly, he mumbled, "What exactly are we doing here?" against her lips.

"You'll see." She liked having the control. So far in her very new, very exciting sex life with Bellamy, he was definitely the more dominant one. But she wasn't some clueless virgin who needed to be guided all around the bedroom. She knew what she was doing, too, even though she didn't have quite as much experience as him.

Snaking her hands down in between them, she grabbed hold of the bottom of his t-shirt and tugged upward. He lifted his arms up to assist her, and once she had him shirtless, her hands quickly got to work on more—ahem— _pressing_ concerns. She scooted back ever so slightly on his lap, sitting more on his knees then, and got to work undoing his jeans.

"Clarke . . ." he choked out, lifting his hips up off the chair.

"What?" She pulled his jeans down, leaving them pooled at his feet. Then she got down on her knees, pushing his legs open a bit. "You haven't even let me do this yet."

His cock was straining against his boxer briefs, but still, he seemed a little hesitant. "Because I don't want you to feel like you have to."

She tried to roll her eyes at that, but really, how could she? That was actually pretty sweet. He hadn't asked for a blow-job because he didn't want to pressure her. He wouldn't bring up Roan, but he was probably worried that it would trigger the memory of . . . all of that. It wouldn't, though. Bellamy was _nothing_ like that monster of a man.

"You like going down on me, right?" she said, pulling his underwear down far enough for his cock to spring out.

"I love it," he said.

"So what makes you think I won't love going down on you?" She licked her lips just to wet them, and then she began handling his cock with one hand. Again, the contrast of his skin tone—especially with how dark it was down there—against her own was enough to drive her wild.

"Fuck yeah," he said, obviously giving into it. He even lifted his hips again to get his boxer briefs farther down. They dropped to where his jeans were at, and Clarke had to take a moment to appreciate how hot Bellamy looked just sitting there with his pants around his ankles. But truth be told, they were in the way. He couldn't very well sprawl out with those on, so with her free hand, she helped him shuck them off completely. When he sat before her, completely naked, it felt like such a role reversal, because it seemed like he usually got her undressed a lot quicker than he got himself that way.

"I want to," she assured him, scooting forward on her knees. She settled in between his open legs, still stroking him, and took a deep breath to prepare herself. Sure, she was confident, but still . . . she'd never actually done this to anyone but Finn before.

She could have started in slow, but the tip of Bellamy's cock was already glistening with pre-cum, and he was so rock hard in her hand that she thought better of torturing him. So instead, she just lowered her mouth directly onto him, concentrating at first on just the head of him. Both his length and girth were substantial, and notably bigger than what she was used to. But she figured, if she could handle him fucking her with that cock, she could handle sucking it.

Keeping one hand wrapped firmly around the base, she began to bob her head up and down his length, taking as much of him as she could without feeling like she was going to gag. There was no way she was going to be able to deep throat him . . . yet. But practice would make perfect.

"That's so good," he praised her, bringing one hand around to cup the back of her head and tangle in her hair. "Oh, yeah . . ."

Well, he definitely _sounded_ like he was enjoying this. The position wasn't particularly conducive for looking at him, though, so for a moment, she withdrew her mouth altogether, still pumping him with her hand while she glanced up at him. "You're so big," she said, figuring any man, regardless of how many times he'd heard that before, would love such a compliment.

"You're doin' good," he told her, holding an intense stare with her while she smeared some his pre-cum and her saliva around the base of his erection. His attention diverted elsewhere, however, when he pointed in between her legs and asked, "What's that?"

She peeked down, not sure what he was talking about. She couldn't see anything very well, but she figured she was starting to soak through the thin fabric of her panties. "See?" she said. "I get turned on by it, too." It was just like when he grinded himself into the mattress when he was going down on her. He did that _every single time,_ probably without even realizing it, and it was one of the hottest things Clarke had ever seen.

Smirking, he leaned forward and bent down, slipping one hand in between her legs to rub at her pussy through her panties. She gasped sharply, loving that stimulation, and it was pretty damn tempting to just let him have at it. But she didn't want to give up the control she had over him right now. For now, she was all about _his_ pleasure. "No, hands off," she told him, using her free hand to move his aside. "This is all about you."

Again, he sat back in the chair, but it seemed really hard for him to keep his hands still. "All about me, huh?" he said, raking them through his already messy hair.

"Yeah." She lowered her head again, whispering against the tip of him, "The boy next door."

He chuckled.

" _My_ boy next door," she added flirtatiously before pressing a soft kiss to the head of his shaft. Then she circled her tongue around it, causing the whole thing to jerk in her hand. With her other hand, she chanced it and played around with his balls a bit. Finn wasn't really into that, but Bellamy didn't object as she rubbed them and squeezed them _very_ gently. In fact, combining that with the attention she was paying to his cock got a pretty guttural groan out of him.

"Shit," he swore.

Pretty damn addicted to the taste of him already, she opened her mouth fully and engulfed him again, resuming her rhythmic sucking, trying to take more of him this time. She felt him hitting the back of her throat, and she concentrated on not panicking and just keeping herself as relaxed as possible. It wasn't like she was going to choke on Bellamy's dick or something. No reason to freak out. In fact, she kind of got off on feeling so much of him in his mouth, just like she got off on the heady, masculine scent of him. Guys were so different down here than girls were.

"I'm gonna cum," he warned her, all three words blending together as one.

Releasing him with a loud pop, she said, "I know," and then added, "I'll swallow," just so he knew he didn't have to hold back.

"You sure?" he asked.

She put her cock back in her mouth and nodded wordlessly.

"Oh, shit, Clarke," he swore again. His hips started to move against her mouth a bit, not enough to disrupt her rhythm or take control of the act, but enough for her to notice. "Yeah, just like that," he rasped as she sucked him.

Oh god, she wanted this. She wanted this so bad. She wanted Bellamy to get off in her mouth. She wanted to know the _full_ taste of him.

"Fuck," he muttered, and then came a louder, more drawn-out, " _Fuck,_ " as he came. Hard. She'd swallowed before, but nothing could have prepared her for . . . this. Bellamy gave her a pretty big load, more than what she was prepared to take, and she had to lift her mouth off of him while he was still cumming. Some of it dribbled onto her chin and jaw instead, but she did her best to swallow as much of him as she could. It was very salty and sticky, but it was _Bellamy_ , so even though it wasn't the _greatest_ taste in the world, she didn't really mind.

"Oh my god, Bellamy," she said, feeling like her face was a mess now.

"Sorry," he apologized, sounding a little stupefied.

"No, it's fine," she assured him. "It's just . . ." She wiped at some of the cum on her chin. "That was a lot." Not that she was complaining. Getting him to cum so hard felt like an accomplishment.

"That's what you do to me," he said.

She licked at her lips and the sides of her mouth, doing her best to get whatever she could, and asked, "Do I look ridiculous now?"

"No, you look sexy."

"Hmm." Maybe so, but she felt like she had to clean herself off a bit. "Stay there," she told him, getting to her feet. Either the high heels were a bit wobbly or she was, because she nearly tripped on her way over to the sink.

"How'd you get so good at that?" he asked her as she began to wash off her face. "You're only nineteen."

"I've watched some porn," she openly confessed.

"Oh, I see."

"Plus, I really do like it." Feeling cleaner, she shut off the water and grabbed a paper towel to dry her face off. "I don't understand those girls who are like, 'Ew, I have to give him head? I hate doing that.'" She rolled her eyes. "Morons."

"Yeah, some guys don't like eating girls out, either," he said. "I don't get that."

"Right?" She threw the paper towel away and walked towards him again, stopping behind the chair this time, bending down so she could drape her arms over his shoulders, leaning down to speak close to his ear. "It's like, this is your man or woman. And it's all about giving pleasure to them. What's not to love about that?"

Turning his head to the side, he told her, "I loved it," and then captured her lips in a kiss. The knowledge that her mouth had just been on his cock seconds ago sent a thrilled tingle up her spine, and she couldn't help but giggle. Again, she started to lose her balance, especially when grabbed her arm and tried to pull her down onto his lap. Eventually, she just gave in and let him, because yeah, his lap seemed like a good place to be. Once he recovered from this orgasm, she'd hop right on up there and give him another one.

This was new, the type of sex life she had with Bellamy. Sex with him wasn't an obligation or a routine. It was . . . truly intimate. And fun. It was what she'd always imagined sex could be.


	42. Chapter 42

_Chapter 42_

Department store shopping was not exactly Clarke's favorite type of shopping, but gradually, the weather was going to start getting warmer, and she was going to need some different clothes. The wardrobe she'd brought from home was very Kansas and not New York City, and most of the clothes she'd purchased since she'd been there were for wintertime.

Finn accompanied her, and he seemed as unenthused about the whole excursion as she was. She would have much rather just gone to the thrift store, but that was more of a thing for her and Bellamy.

"So what's up next for the club then?" Finn asked as they strolled through a men's clothing section where literally every single shirt looked the same.

"I don't know," she said, pretending to browse. "We kind of have a lull in holidays, so . . . I guess we'll have to have auditions and start training someone new soon."

"Who's leaving?" Finn asked.

"Harper. I told you that." He probably hadn't listened.

"Oh, yeah, 'cause she's gonna graduate, right?"

"Right. She only stripped so she could pay for school." She took a blue button-down shirt off the rack and held it up to Finn, making a face and shaking her head because it just didn't look right. "She's still got a couple months left, but then she's done," she said, hanging it back up.

"I bet she'll miss the money."

"I think she's ready to be done, though." These past few weeks, Harper had been dancing less and less often. When she got up on stage, she still performed her heart out, and she was definitely still one of the club's big draws. But every time she got offstage, she just looked so over it. Having Monty in the equation now, too, probably contributed to that.

"You think anyone else is gonna quit?" Finn inquired.

"Maybe Roma." As much as she hated to even think it, it was more likely that Roma was going to get fired.

"And which one's Roma again?"

"Late twenties, has a kid."

Finn nodded as he recalled her. "Yeah, she's not as . . ." He trailed off, apparently struggling to find the right word. "She just doesn't hold people's attention the way the rest of you do."

"Well, she's been doing this for a really long time," Clarke pointed out.

"Right, so she should be _really_ good."

Roma _was_ good, technically. She'd helped teach Clarke some of the basics when Harper hadn't been available to do so. Just because she didn't have the same sparkle in her eyes she may have once had didn't mean she wasn't good at it anymore. "Well, maybe she's just tired of it," she suggested. As much as she enjoyed the dancing aspect of her job, she could see how the other side of it, the more objectifying side, could wear on someone.

"You're not, though, right?" Finn said. "Tired of it?"

"No." She still had plenty of energy, plenty of drive. There were tricks she wanted to learn and songs she wanted to choreograph to. Just the other night, her dance with Harper had been _such_ a crowd-pleaser, even though they hadn't taken any clothes off. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it to the best of her ability, well enough that people like Cage would start to realize she was a dancer first and foremost, a stripper second.

"Good," Finn said, "'cause we need the money you make."

Clarke turned her back to him and kept on walking so that he wouldn't see her roll her eyes. He was all about the cash, huh? Money for him to spend on his car.

"Speaking of money . . ." she said, sensing an easy segue. "Any chance I'm gonna get paid for that photo shoot I did with Bellamy?"

Finn sighed, following along behind her. "I don't know. Cage said that whole campaign's kind of in limbo right now, so . . ."

"So we might not get paid," she deduced. Of fucking course. "You know, I wish I could say I'm surprised, but nothing about your cousin or his shady business surprises me anymore."

"No, don't get upset," he said, reaching out to rub her shoulders. "We're doin' fine. We're makin' ends meet."

"Yeah, thanks to me," she muttered, shrugging his hands away.

He stopped walking. "What?"

She slowed to a stop, too, and turned around. "Nothing," she said. Yeah, it aggravated her that their primary source of income always seemed to be _her_ income, especially when Cage had promised Finn such a great and lucrative career here. But Finn was feeling crappy enough lately, and she didn't want to make him feel worse. That would probably make him drink more. "So what jobs do you have lined up next?" she asked, attempting to change the subject. "Any more photo shoots?"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet. "Not really," he mumbled. "I'll just have to see what comes along. There was this one job, but . . ." His sentence faded, and he shook his head.

"What about it?" At this point, even a small job was better than nothing.

"Well, it would've been pretty cool," he admitted. "It's a long one. Basically three weeks in Mexico."

"In _Mexico_?" she echoed incredulously. She'd always known Finn's choice of career might provide him some opportunities to travel, but this was really the first one that he'd mentioned.

"Yeah. The nice part of Mexico."

What was that, like Cancun or something? Were there even any other nice parts of Mexico? She wasn't sure, so she just pictured Cancun in her mind. "So what exactly would you be doing that whole time?" she asked.

"Oh, a whole bunch of stuff. We're representing this up-and-coming Latina singer now—I can't even remember her name, but supposedly she's really good," he said, sounding excited just telling her about it. "Anyway, she's from Mexico, so we got all the promotion starting up there. Concerts, meet and greets, photo shoots, music videos . . ."

Clarke's eyes widened. That sounded . . . involved.

"And then we're gonna try to cross her over to the U.S. market. Cage feels like it's gonna be huge for us."

"So you could get to be a part of that?" If it was huge for the company, Finn needed to be involved.

Unfortunately, he sighed heavily. "No. Cage already got Roger lined up for it, so . . ." He shrugged apathetically. "Looks like I'm gonna have to sit that one out."

He sounded so . . . resigned. And that wasn't good enough for her. "That's not fair," she argued. Roger had just started working there a couple months ago. Finn should have had seniority or something.

"It is what it is," he said, flapping his arms against his sides.

"No, it's not. You're his family."

"I don't wanna have opportunities just because I'm his family. I wanna earn 'em."

"You have," she insisted. "A hell of a lot more than this Roger guy has."

"He's a good photographer," Finn admitted.

"Not as good as you." She really didn't know how their photos compared to one another, but she knew Finn was good, and she knew without a _doubt_ that she was fed up with him getting the short end of the stick at this damn company. "Finn, you should fight for this," she told him.

For a second, he stared over her shoulder, as if lost in thought, and he said, "I mean, it would be cool to get to direct some videos. You know how I've always wanted to try my hand at directing."

He had mentioned that before, back in high school, but so far he'd only done smaller stuff like putting together the senior class video at graduation and filming the trailer park wedding of someone who had lived down the street. Everyone had to start somewhere, though, right?

"But it's three weeks, Clarke," he reiterated. "I don't wanna spend three weeks away from you."

 _Three weeks._ Her heart leapt at the thought. Three weeks of not having to come with excuses for why she didn't want to have sex with him again yet. Three weeks of not having to look at him and be reminded of how she'd walked in on him and Raven. Three weeks of being able to be as loud as she wanted to when Bellamy was fucking her senseless. "Finn . . . you can't turn down a job just for me," she said, trying to sound all supportive when, really, she was feeling kind of selfish.

"I can't turn down a job if it's not even offered to me," he pointed out. And then, with another not devastated shrug, he said, "It's fine," and brushed past her as he continued through the store.

She frowned, unable to give up on this as easily as he was. It wasn't fine for him to miss out on this job. No. It wasn't fine at all.

...

"So how long would he be gone for?" Bellamy asked as the dryer rumbled against his back.

"Three weeks." Clarke lay on the floor with her head in his lap, beaming an excited smile up at him. "Uno, dos, tres."

"Huh. That's interesting." He rubbed her head, letting himself imagine three whole weeks with her. Without Finn Collins. Seemed like paradise.

"But he didn't get the job." She pouted.

"Damn." That really sucked. He would have loved all the time alone with Clarke. The closest he'd gotten was when Finn had driven back to Kansas for a couple days. But that wasn't enough. Here they were hanging out down in the laundry room right now because it was more private than his own apartment when Finn was lazing about right next door.

"And it's not like I have a whole lot of sway with Cage, so I can't convince him to change his mind," Clarke lamented.

"Who could?"

"Maybe Raven, but she's not exactly looking to vouch for Finn right now." She groaned frustratedly. "I don't know, maybe Roger could just mysteriously get food poisoning or something. Or get clubbed on the knee like Nancy Kerrigan."

"Oh, great, I'm dating Tonya Harding now," he joked.

"No, I'm just . . ." She sat up, facing him and moving in close. "I'm frustrated, because I'd love to have three weeks with you. Just imagine it. Three weeks, just us. No lying or sneaking around."

"Except at the club," he pointed out. Finn wasn't the only one they were keeping this relationship a secret from.

"Okay, not _as much_ sneaking around then," she amended, putting her hand on his stomach. "And Finn would make some money while he's there, so for me, it's a win/win."

Hell, any chance he got to spend time alone with Clarke counted as a win in his book. "It would be really nice," he agreed, wishing there was a way to make it happen.

"We could do all sorts of stuff," she said, slowly smoothing her hand up to his chest.

"Like what?" As if he didn't know.

"Like . . ." She tilted her head to the side flirtatiously and smiled. "What do you wanna do?"

"Oh, I got a lot of answers to that question." He'd had some _vivid_ dreams ever since he and Clarke had started sleeping together. Last night's had involved anal, which was probably outside her comfort zone, and he didn't want to push her to do too much too soon.

"Show me," she said, leaning in for a kiss. God, kissing her felt so natural at this point, and he wasn't surprised when she crawled into his lap and basically straddled him. Clarke liked being on top of him, climbing him like a fucking tree.

Just to give her a hint as to what he'd been dreaming about last night, he slid his hands down the back of her jeans, giving her ass a good squeeze. Whether she interpreted the hint correctly or not, he wasn't sure, and he couldn't very well ask, because the door to the room opened, and someone else came in. Clarke immediately jumped off of him and sat down beside him, thudding against the dryer loudly. The woman who came in had a huge, heaping basket of laundry balanced against her hip and was yakking up a storm on her phone, so she was in her own world and barely even noticed the two of them. Still, they just sat there like two kids who'd gotten caught in the janitor's closet and waited for her to dump all her clothes in one of the washer and leave. She stepped over them and around them, and they probably could have just kept making out, and she wouldn't have even noticed.

When she was finally gone, he said, "I swear, sometimes we must be so fucking obvious."

"We are," she said. "Harper says we have eyesex."

"Eyesex?" Was that a term Octavia's generation had coined, because he'd never even heard it before. "What is that?"

"I don't know, I think it's kind of like . . ." She squinted her eyes at him exaggeratedly, so he did the same to her. She leaned in, her whole eyes widening then, and broke into laughter. "We're so not sexy right now!"

"You're pretty sexy." Even when she wasn't trying to be, this girl turned him on. He scooped her back up into his arms and resumed kissing her, wondering if he might be able to convince her to bend over that rumbling washing machine so he could show her just how sexy he thought she was.

...

Venturing to Finn's workplace was always a risk. Because Clarke never knew if she'd run into Cage—gross—or hell, if she'd even walk in on Finn and Raven together again. So she chose a day she knew Finn was out and about instead of at work, and she crossed her fingers that she'd be able to avoid his cousin while she was there.

She high-tailed it to Raven's office, which wasn't hard to find because it wasn't very far away from Finn's. Her office was a lot bigger, rightfully so, since her job was bigger. Everything was meticulously organized and in its place, right down to the nameplate on her desk. _Raven Reyes,_ it read. _Creative Director._

Clarke knocked lightly on the door to alert the other girl to her presence. "Raven, hey."

Raven looked up from her computer and said, "Oh, hi, Clarke." She didn't really smile, but she didn't look hostile, either. "Finn's not here today."

"I know." She stepped inside hesitantly and shut the door. "I'm here to see you."

"Oh, really?" Raven closed her computer and pushed her chair back so she could stand. "What about?"

Clarke shrugged nonchalantly. "Just wanted to talk to you about something."

"Something, huh?" Raven glanced up at the clock and then immediately started buzzing around, grabbing a few papers off her desk and her purse out of the closet. "Well, you're gonna have to make it quick," she said. "I've got a meeting with a client in twenty minutes."

 _I wonder if she really has a meeting,_ Clarke speculated. Probably, but lingering in the back of her mind was the suspicion that maybe Raven just wanted an excuse not to have a long, drawn-out conversation with her.

"It's about the Mexico thing," she blurted, not really sure what else to call it.

"Oh, you mean Alejandra's publicity campaign?"

Alejandra? Must've been the singer. "Sure," she said. "Finn told me he's not gonna be a part of it. Any idea why?"

Raven slung her purse over her shoulder clutched her documents to her chest with one hand. "No."

"It doesn't have anything to do with the two of you . . . falling out," Clarke said, trying to phrase it as delicately as possible, "does it?"

Raven made a face, looking as if she were a bit miffed by that question. "It was Cage's decision, not mine," she said defensively. "I didn't have anything to do with it."

"So why does Cage insist on treating his own cousin like dirt?"

Raven sighed heavily, closing the distance between her and Clarke. She sat back against her desk, bumping her nameplate aside, and said simply, "Look, Cage is my boss."

"I know. I'm not asking you to talk bad about him."

Narrowing her eyes, Raven countered, "Aren't you, though?"

 _Am I?_ Clarke wondered. Come to think of it . . . yeah, she probably was. But that was partially because she hated Cage so damn much.

Raven lowered her voice, then, and said, "Look, between you and me . . . Cage doesn't like you. I'm sure you know that."

Clarke grunted and rolled her eyes. Yeah, she knew.

"He invited Finn to move out here, not Finn and Clarke," Raven went on. "He would love to have a wild, single cousin to hang out with, to go pick up models with. But Finn's with you. So Cage probably thinks, the more opportunities he withholds, the more likely Finn is to break up with you."

Clarke's brows furrowed as she let that soak in, the knowledge that perhaps she was holding Finn back from achieving the things he wanted to. She wasn't trying to do that, and even though part of her felt like he deserved it . . . the other part of her felt pretty guilty. "So Cage is gonna limit his career all because he and I don't get along?" she huffed. "That sounds childish."

"Well, Cage can be a child sometimes," Raven admitted. "There. How's that for talking bad about him?"

Clarke exhaled heavily in frustration. Fine, if that was the problem, then there had to be a solution. "I really want Finn to be able to go to Mexico," she said. "I think he'd be excited, too. He's kinda been struggling lately."

For just a split second, a look of concern flashed through Raven's eyes. But she blinked it away just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Do you think there's _any_ way you could talk to Cage," Clarke implored, "maybe get him to change his mind?"

"And be Finn's personal cheerleader?" Raven snorted. "You do remember he and I aren't even speaking to each other anymore, right?"

 _Not even speaking?_ Clarke thought. _Wow._ Raven had really ended things cold turkey between them then. Clarke couldn't imagine doing that with Bellamy. Just keeping her distance from him had been hard enough. "Isn't it about what's best for the company, though?" she kept on, not willing to give up when it seemed like Raven Reyes was her _only_ viable avenue to pursue.

"Well, yeah," Raven muttered.

"And don't you think Finn's your best photographer?"

Raven thought about it for a moment, and then, almost as if it pained her to do so, replied, "Objectively speaking . . . yes."

"Then if this trip's really such a big deal, he should be on it. Don't you think?"

Suspiciously, Raven looked her up and down. "What's your angle here, Clarke?"

"What?" _Oh, shit,_ she thought, trying to act like she had no idea what Raven could be getting at. "Nothing. I just want my boyfriend to get the opportunities he deserves."

"You know he'd be gone for three weeks, don't you?"

 _Oh, trust me,_ Clarke thought, _that's what I'm looking forward to._ "It'll be worth it," she declared confidently. Maybe by the end of those three weeks, she'd be ready to pull the plug on this relationship with Finn for good.

Raven folded her arms over her chest, glaring at her as if something about all of this had just clicked into place. "Oh. I see."

"What?" See what? What was there to see?

Raven laughed angrily, shaking her head. " _Wow_ ," she said. "You're just like Finn, you know that? Both of you . . . you like to have your cake and eat it, too."

Was she implying that . . . that she and Bellamy . . .

Oh god, was she implying the truth?

"Raven, I don't-"

"Oh, save it," she snapped. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

 _I do,_ Clarke thought shamefully. _We both do._ Raven wasn't an idiot. Even if she hadn't seen her and Bellamy hanging out together the other day, she probably would have suspected something was going on between them.

"I'll put in a good word for Finn, only because he _is_ the best person for the job," Raven snarled. "And you can enjoy your three weeks without him however you see fit." Clearly upset now, she brushed past Clarke on her way out, leaving Clarke to stew in her own guilt. She felt horrible was. Here was Raven, probably very much still heartbroken about Finn and trying to get over her feelings for him, and now . . . now she knew about her and Bellamy. It didn't sound like she was gonna say anything, but still . . . she _knew_. It seemed like everyone was figuring it out these days.

Everyone except Finn.

...

Bellamy was expecting Miller to swing by for some quality bro-time that afternoon, so when someone knocked on his door, he just assumed it was him. Pausing his video game, he got up to answer it. But it wasn't Miller. Goddammit, it was Finn.

"Hey, man, what's up?" Finn greeted him, as if they were friends and him being there was a normal occurrence. "Can I come in?"

 _What the fuck is this about?_ Bellamy wondered, debating whether or not to let him in. He could lie and say he was sick or about to go have a date with Pamela _Handerson_ or something.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Finn asked when Bellamy failed to respond.

 _Crap, he's not gonna go away,_ Bellamy thought. Stepping aside, he reluctantly allowed the floppy-haired idiot to come inside. But he still didn't say anything. In fact, he went right back over to his couch, sat down, and un-paused his game. He was in the middle of some important shit here. Zombies to kill and all that.

"You got a minute?" Finn asked, sitting first on the arm of the couch, then sliding down onto the cushion beside him. "I wanna ask you something."

Bellamy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Ask away."

Finn looked down at his lap for a moment, then mumbled, "It's about Clarke."

 _Oh . . . shit._ That could mean a lot of things. Bellamy schooled himself to remain casual and unaffected, and he kept his eyes on the screen. "What about her?"

"Well, she and I are kinda . . ." Finn trailed off, obviously struggling to find the words he wanted. "We've been going through something. But it's getting better."

Bellamy laughed inwardly. _Sure it is._

"I thought I'd plan something romantic for her, you know. A date night."

It was _really_ hard not to have a reaction to that, because the thought of _his_ girl going out on a date with this guy . . . well, it paled in comparison to the thought of her kissing him or crawling into bed with him at night. But this was what he'd agreed to, so he had to go along with it. "Alright." It didn't make any sense for Finn to tell him this unless he was trying to stake his claim on her or something.

"But I have no idea what to do."

Or unless he was a moron who didn't even know what his own girlfriend would like. "You're asking me for advice on Clarke?"

"More like . . . advice on something we could do together," Finn clarified. "It's a big city; you know it better than I do. Is there someplace nice I could take her?"

It was New York fucking City. It wasn't like he was low on options. "Just Google some shit," Bellamy suggested.

"I did. That didn't really help."

"Then get a girl's opinion," he advised, and just to be an ass, he added, "Ask Raven."

"No, I can't," Finn said, his eyes downcast again. "Raven's . . . busy."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm busy, too."

"You're playing video games."

"Trying to." He mashed the controller furiously, pissed when he lost the level. Dammit, this guy's presence was throwing him off. "Look, just keep it simple," he suggested, quickly restarting the level again. "Don't try too hard. Dinner and movie." That sounded lame, but Bellamy wasn't exactly looking to give this guy any _good_ advice.

"Or a movie and then dinner," Finn thought out loud.

"Whatever." Either way, it was lame and cliché. So that meant it was perfect.

"Yeah. And then maybe afterward, we can . . . see where it goes." Finn chuckled, grinning.

Bellamy's jaw tightened, and for a split-second, he let himself pretend that zombie he was shooting at was Finn Collins.

"Sorry, I know these walls are thin," Finn went on. "I'll try to keep her quiet."

Bellamy frowned, his stomach churning at the thought of Clarke and Finn hooking up. She said they weren't doing that right now, and that she _wouldn't_ sleep with both of them at the same time. But what if . . . what if she didn't know how to turn him down this time, or what if she just had too much to drink or something and wasn't thinking clearly enough to stop it?

"If you guys are having problems, you shouldn't pressure her for that," Bellamy advised. And even though he had a selfish reason for saying it, he had to pat himself on the back for that one. Because that actually _was_ good advice.

"Oh, I didn't say we were having _problems,_ " Finn said. "And I definitely didn't say I was gonna pressure her. I'd never do that."

"But that's how it might seem to her, you know?" He _desperately_ didn't want to have to share Clarke in _that_ way. He may not have had the boyfriend title right now, but he had Clarke, all of her, when it came to sex. He loved getting lost in her body, and he didn't want Finn to have that pleasure. "If I were you, I'd just leave it at dinner and movie," he said. "Let her tell you if she wants something more."

Finn thought about it for a moment. "Let her take the lead, huh?"

"Yeah." He trusted Clarke. There was no _way_ she'd lead Finn down that road right now.

Luckily, Finn was such a dumbass that he couldn't see through any of this. He fell for Bellamy's 'advice' hook, line, and sinker. "That's smart," he said. "That's probably a good idea. Hey, thanks, Bellamy." He patted him on the shoulder, got to his feet, and headed out.

"Anytime," Bellamy said, relived when he was gone.

...

"Oh my god, that must've been so awkward." Clarke squeezed Bellamy's hand as they strode along the Brooklyn bridge, no real destination in mind. Just spending time with each other.

"It was," he said. "Don't let him convince you to have sex, though. Alright?"

"I won't." There were some lines she just wouldn't cross, and sleeping with two men at once was one of them.

"You promise?"

"I promise." The only person she wanted to have sex with was the man next to her. And nothing was going to change that.

She stopped when she felt like she had the absolute most perfect view of the Statue of Liberty and leaned against the railing, looking out at it, the city, and the water. "Look at the sunset," she said. "It's so pretty."

Standing behind her, Bellamy wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "You're prettier."

She smiled happily, taking a moment to just stand there with him, breathing, relaxing, being content and at peace in a way she rarely ever had been in this city. "You know, Finn and I never put a lock on here," she said sliding her hands over the railing. There were dozens of them latched to the crisscross of bars right down there by her legs. All sorts of different colors, all sorts of different names and initials written on them.

"Are we gonna lock it down then?" he asked.

She laughed a little at the way he phrased that question. "We could." She'd rather have a lock on there with Bellamy than Finn, anyway. "Next time we come out here," she said, turning her head to the side so that she could look at him when she said it. She wanted him to know she meant it.

He nodded in agreement but then added, "After you break up with him."

"After," she said. That was fair. That was right. "Thank you for being so patient with me, Bellamy," she said, resting one of her arms on top of his. "I probably don't deserve it."

"Oh, Clarke . . ." He kissed her temple, and his breath rustled her hair as he said, "You deserve so much more than you know."

She smiled, once again feeling perfectly content and at ease. Right here on this bridge. Right here in Bellamy's arms. For the first time since she'd left Arkadia, she was starting to feel like she had a real home again. But it wasn't a place.

It was _him._


	43. Chapter 43

_Chapter 43_

Finn didn't dance, at least not unless he had to, so walking into the living room and finding him attempting to _salsa_ to some old Ricky Martin song and wearing an oversized sombrero on his head was _truly_ a sight to behold.

"Finn?" she said, having to talk loudly to be heard over the music.

Whirling around, he exclaimed, "Clarke! Guess what?"

"What?" He'd lost his mind?

His whole face lit up. "I got the job!"

"You got the . . ." All the dots instantly connected, and she understood what he was saying. "The Mexico job?"

"Yeah." He turned down the volume on the music and took off his sombrero.

Dropping her purse on the floor, she raced towards him and threw her arms around him. "Oh my god, that's great!" she said, hugging him excitedly. Part of her was truly excited for him, but the other part was excited for herself, too.

"Yeah, I don't know what made Cage change his mind," Finn said, keeping his hands on her waist even after she pulled back from the hug, "but he called me into his office right as I was leaving and said, ' _Bienvenido a la_. . . something or another.'"

"That's amazing," Clarke raved, so impressed that Raven had managed to come through for her. "I'm so happy for you."

"Yeah, I'm pretty stoked," he agreed. His eyes were big, and he couldn't stop smiling. It was the most animated and lively Clarke had seen him look in weeks.

"You should be," she said. "You deserve this."

"Thanks," he said, attempting to give her a quick kiss. But she'd gotten good at turning her head to the side so he'd only get her cheek. "I mean, I hate the thought of being away from you for three weeks, but . . . it'll be a good thing."

"It will be," Clarke agreed. _A very good thing._ God, she couldn't wait to tell Bellamy.

"I'll make some money, so when I get back, we won't have that to stress out about as much. And they do say absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?"

Not her heart. Not anymore. "Right," she forced herself to say.

"You're gonna be okay, though, aren't you?" He smoothed his hand over her hair, looking a bit sad when he said, "I hate the thought of you being here by yourself."

"I was here by myself over Thanksgiving," she reminded him.

"Yeah, but this is for three weeks."

It was. It really was. Her heart raced with anticipation as she thought of everything she could do in three weeks without having to sneak around and keep things secret from him. "I won't be by myself," she said. "I have . . . my friends."

"Yeah," he said. "You're right. And I guess if you need anything, Bellamy's right next door."

Hmm. Yeah, she was gonna need something from him alright. And she was gonna need it _constantly._

"Are you gonna miss me, though?" Finn asked, and he actually kind of sounded pathetic.

"Oh . . . it would seem that way," she answered vaguely.

He smirked and rubbed his hands over the small of her back, predicting, "You're gonna get bored without me."

"You think?" No, she wasn't.

"Oh, yeah," he boasted confidently. "What're you gonna do with all your alone time?"

She pictured Bellamy's large hands on her breasts, his hot mouth on her neck, his thick cock fucking into her with reckless abandon. "I'm sure I'll think of something," she said, unable to think about anything else.

...

"Uh . . ." Clarke moaned as Bellamy pounded into her from behind. "Uh!"

His wet thighs slapped against the back of her ass as water poured down on his back. Fucking Clarke in the shower had been on his to-do list for a while now, and it wasn't a disappointment. She looked so sexy bent over like this, holding onto the wall with one hand. As much as he hated to let go of her hips, he had to adjust the water, make it colder. Because he was burning up.

"Oh god, yes," she cried when he grabbed her waist and pulled her back against him hard. "Oh, Bellamy . . ."

He resumed his hips' rhythm, watching in awe as his cock slid into her. "God, you're so fucking tight," he scraped out, loving the way it looked when he started to slide out and the lips of her pussy just pulled him right back in. She liked feeling him in there. "Fuck," he swore, getting off on the sight of it just as much as he was the feel of it.

Her hand slipped against the wall, but she kept her balance and managed to stay in the same position so he could keep fucking her. "Oh god," she gasped.

"Oh, shit." He wanted to get her off, too, but he wasn't gonna last here. From the moment she'd suggested they do it in the shower, he'd known he wasn't gonna be able to draw it out as long as he would have liked. "Oh, shit," he said again, momentarily contemplating pulling out so he could sink down to his knees and eat her out for a few minutes. He couldn't stop, though, not when he was this close. "Fuck." He pulled out right as he felt like he was about to shoot his load, because he'd neglected to put a condom on. Squeezing his eyes shut, he came, _hard_. Seemed like he always came hard with her. " _Oh_. . ." he groaned, squirting all over her ass and the small of her back. As much as he loved cumming inside her, without a condom on, that wasn't an option. But hey, seeing his cum decorating her skin? Didn't suck.

"Hey, no fair," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. "We're in the shower. I'm supposed to be getting clean."

"Well, too bad," he said, giving his cock a few good, long strokes. "Now you're dirty."

"Mmm." She didn't seem to mind. In fact, she embraced it, standing up so she could lean back against him. "You're dirty if I'm dirty," she said, circling her ass against his uber-sensitive groin. It seemed like she was trying to smear his cum around on him, too, but the water falling down from the showerhead sort of prevented that. Still . . . it was hot as hell seeing her try.

"Were you close?" he asked, sensing that a minute or so more would have gotten her off, too.

"Yeah," she said, but she didn't sound disappointed.

He'd be disappointed in _himself,_ though, if he didn't make sure she got the same kind of pleasure out of his he did. Determined to get her there, he wrapped both arms around her stomach, one of them to hold her in place in front of him, the other to snake in between her legs so his hand could finish the job.

"Mmm . . ." she purred as he started to finger her. "Oh, yeah."

He pumped his index and middle fingers into her, using his thumb to massage her clit. The more he had sex with Clarke, the more he learned what she liked, and he'd learned that she _loved_ it when he played with her clit. As most girls did.

"Oh, just like that," she whispered, each word pouring out on top of the other. She started to wriggle and writhe against his hand, pressing down on him, and dammit, even though he'd gone semi-soft by now, he was still feeling like he could get off again.

"Cum for me," he whispered in her ear, her wet hair sticking to the side of his face.

It didn't take much longer for her to do just that. She panted for air as she got closer and closer. The more ragged her breathing became, the closer she was, until finally . . . " _Uh_!" she cried out, her whole body tensing and clenching as she climaxed. She came all over his fingers. He could barely tell what was water and what was her, but it was _all_ good.

"We're so horny," he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from between her legs, figuring she'd be sensitive like he was.

"I know," she said, tossing her head back against his shoulder, "I love it."

...

Somebody threw a glass, and Clarke wasn't sure where it landed, but she heard it shatter.

"Yeah, you horny bitch!" some guy with a weird half haircut and a beard shouted over the roar of the crowd. He stood up on the couch and yelled, "Show me how that pussy gets fucked!"

Clarke retreated a bit as two other guys she didn't recognize started to rush towards the stage. Luckily, the bouncer shoved them back, but the crowd, in general, remained loud and rowdy. Clarke wasn't sure whether to keep dancing or not, but . . . she didn't want to.

The music stopped, and she took that as her cue to leave. She couldn't even do her signature smile and wave as an exit. She slipped back behind the curtain in a hurry, and the crowd actually booed. She wasn't sure if they were booing her, booing the guys who'd rushed the stage, or booing Anya, who'd undoubtedly been the one to pull the plug on the performance.

God. That'd been . . . something.

Roma was sitting back there at one of the vanities, putting on loads of makeup.

"Quite the crowd," Clarke warned her.

"Sounds like." Roma sighed as she caked on the eyeliner under her eyes. "Yeah, Polis got shut down by the cops. So now we're getting some of their regulars." She grunted. "And here we thought Roan was a jerk, huh?"

 _Roan._ The mere thought of him still made her skin crawl. "Well . . . he was." Hopefully these new guys didn't stick around, though. They were disgusting, and they were so drunk.

She had yet to even put a shirt on when Bellamy poked his head into the room and said, "Hey. You alright?"

"Yeah," she said, touched but not at all surprised that he'd want to check up on her. "Thanks."

Nodding, he left the room—probably wouldn't have if Roma hadn't been sitting there with only tassels covering her nipples.

"Girl, you got him wrapped around your finger," Roma said, smiling at Clarke through the mirror.

She smiled, trying to downplay that. "We're just friends."

"Mmm-hmm."

Well, clearly Roma knew better. But Harper and Murphy already knew, and now Raven knew, too, so Clarke wasn't exactly looking for anyone else to join that club. So she didn't deny it, but she didn't confirm it, either.

Eager to get out of there, Clarke got dressed in a hurry, wished Roma good luck—because she was gonna need it with that crowd—grabbed her purse, and headed out. She put her hood over her head, hoping to sneak out of there without drawing any attention to herself; but that probably looked more conspicuous than inconspicuous, so she took the hood off and just started through the club, veering off for the bar, figuring she'd stop and tell Bellamy she was leaving.

Before she could get to him, a bigger-boned woman with a low-slung ponytail jumped in front of her, smiling. "Hi," she said. "It's Clarke, right?"

"Yeah." Most of the people here didn't bother learning her name, so immediately, Clarke's interest was piqued. "Who are you?"

"Charmaine Diyoza," the woman replied. "I'm a casting director with Eligius Pictures."

"Oh." That didn't ring a bell with her, but she acted like it did. "Hi."

"I watched you perform tonight," Charmaine said. "You're very good."

"Thank you." _Is she hitting on me?_ Clarke wondered. Some women were really forward like that.

"Don't mind McCreary and those jackasses," Charmaine went on, motioning over her shoulder at the guy who'd been shouting at her most during her performance. They were all doing shots now, but the two men who'd rushed the stage were no longer anywhere in sight. "They talk big," Charmaine said, "but nothing else is big about them. Well, McCreary's big, but . . ."

Clarke's eyes bulged a bit, and she stopped the woman with a quick, "Noted." She didn't need to know any more.

Charmaine smirked, reached into her back pocket, and pulled out a small business card. "We're having auditions tomorrow at the address on the back of that card," she said, handing it over to Clarke. "You should come."

Clarke looked at the card quizzically. "Oh, I'm really not much of an actress," she said. "I mean, I did a play once, but . . ."

"Any girl who does the job you do and does it at your level . . ." Charmaine cut in, "that's one hell of an actress to me."

Well . . . that was true, wasn't it? She'd told Bellamy she was acting when she was in Girl Next Door mode, and she really, truly believed that.

"Stop by tomorrow," Charmaine told her. "10:00."

She didn't intend to, but she said, "Okay," anyway, and Charmaine kept smiling as she walked away, back to the very same men who had been so unruly during Clarke's show.

When she was gone, Bellamy sidled up to Clarke and asked, "What was that about?"

"She's a casting director. She gave me her card," she replied, handing it over to him.

"Oh, really?" He looked it over, shrugged, and handed it back.

"Weird, huh?" She shoved it in her pocket, kind of surprised that someone would spot her in a strip club and assume she had an acting talent. She definitely wasn't . . . upset about it, though. Not at all.

"What for?" Bellamy asked. "Commercial, TV . . ."

"I don't know. She just said they're having auditions. Didn't even get a script."

"Must just be a commercial then," Bellamy figured. "Sometimes you just get the lines right when you show up for those."

"Well, I'm not gonna go."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?" Bellamy pressed.

"I don't know." She had no interest in being in a commercial. It'd probably be a waste of time, and just like the photo shoot she and Bellamy had done, no money would ever come of it. Plus . . .

Plus, acting was Bellamy's thing. She didn't want to steal that from him.

"You should do it," he encouraged her. "I'll go with you."

Was he really willing to do that? Even if it kind of stung for him that she was getting an opportunity and he wasn't, he wanted to go and support her? How could she turn him down when he was being so sweet? "Alright," she said, willing to give it a shot if that was what he wanted her to do. "It's a date."

...

While Bellamy drove, he tried to give Clarke advice, things he'd learned throughout the years like projecting confidence, connecting with the lines, giving it your own personality. Not that any of those things had worked particularly well for him over the years, but . . . hell, maybe it'd work better for Clarke. Truth be told, he'd love it if she could get a part here, a part there. If she got enough work, maybe she wouldn't keep stripping.

"Eligius Pictures, huh?" he said, leading the way inside the building the address on the back of the card had led to.

"Yep."

He held the door open for her and said, "Never heard of 'em. Sounds more like a film company, though." It was weird that they hadn't asked her to bring a résumé or a headshot, but maybe that woman at the club the other night had seen everything she needed to see in order for her to want to give her a chance at this.

"Oh my god, what if I actually get the part?" Clarke babbled, sounding a little excited now. "Whatever the part is."

"Then I'd be proud of you." Hell, he'd be more than proud; he'd be fucking elated. Anything to get her out of that club and onto something better.

"Yeah, but this isn't even fair. You've been working for this for years."

"Let's just see what this is all about, alright?" There were signs on the walls that said _Auditions_ with arrows pointing in the direction to go, so they followed them. They finally ended up in big, open room with some of the other people—mostly women, but some men—who were auditioning. The women were all beautiful, but pretty . . . fake. Big fake boobs, fake nails, fake hair.

"Oh my god," Clarke gasped, pointing out a bleach blonde chick who looked more like a cartoon character than an actual person with her huge, fake tits. "Those are, like, flotation devices."

"Yours are a lot better," he said. Maybe a couple of other women there were natural, but most of them weren't. Looks-wise, Clarke had them all beat.

The door to the adjoining room opened, and out came that woman from the club the other night. She looked around, spotted Clarke, and came towards them. "Clarke," she said. "Glad you could make it." Eyeing Bellamy, she remarked, "And you brought a partner. Perfect."

"Oh, yeah, Charmaine, this is Bellamy Blake," Clarke introduced them. "He's an actor."

"I saw you at the club last night, didn't I?" Charmaine asked him. "Behind the bar."

"Yeah." He would have shaken her hand, but she didn't seem like the type. Hell, this had just gotten intriguing, though. A partner? They were casting some kind of male part, too?

"Mmm, good choice," Charmaine said to Clarke, grinning. "He's gorgeous."

Bellamy smirked, glancing around at some of the guys. Most of them looked like they were his age or a little older, and a lot of them were more preoccupied with flirting with all the women there than with preparing for the audition.

"Come on in," Charmaine said, motioning for them to follow her into the adjoining room. "Both of you."

"This is exciting," Clarke whispered, skipping ahead of him.

 _Yeah,_ he thought, trying to put his finger on the pulse of this audition. Where the hell were the scripts? It couldn't be an improv thing, right?

When they got into the room, there were no directors or talent scouts sitting behind a casting table. Only two men—one of whom Bellamy had served at the bar last night—sitting on a couch. "Everyone, this is Clarke and Bellamy," Charmaine said, sitting down comfortably in between them.

"I'm Clarke," Clarke said, raising her hand as if she were in school. "He's Bellamy."

"Clarke what?" one of the guys asked.

"Griffin."

He nodded. "And Bellamy . . .?"

"Blake," he filled in.

"That's great, isn't it?" Charmaine said. "Great choice of a name."

"I didn't choose it." His mom had. Why the hell did so many casting people think it was a stage name?

"Why don't we begin?" Charmaine suggested.

"Okay," Clarke said eagerly. "With what?"

Charmaine smiled at them and simply said, "Kiss."

Bellamy made a face. Were these not speaking roles or something?

Clarke, on the other hand, was a lot more eager to just go for it. "Oh. Well, we can do that," she said. Looping her arms around Bellamy's neck, she pulled his head down towards hers, and he kissed her, figuring they had this in the bag if the audition was all about projecting chemistry or something. If they needed romantic leads, they could do that. Hell, they'd done that in the play. They'd done that in the photo shoot. It wasn't even acting; it was just . . . real.

Nobody told them to stop kissing, but it felt strange to basically be making out in front of strangers, so Bellamy gradually pulled away.

"But if you want more of a Titanic thing, we can do that, too," Clarke offered. She hopped in front of him and put her arms out to the side, as if to mimic the infamous 'I'm flying' scene. "Come on, Bellamy," she said.

He moved in behind her and linked his hands with hers, but . . . what the fuck were they doing, honestly? Something wasn't right about this.

"You two dating?" one of the guys on the couch asked.

"Are we . . ." How the hell was he even supposed to answer that?

"Well, yes. And no. Kind of," Clarke stuttered. "It's . . . confusing. Why—why does that matter?"

The guy shrugged. "Guess it doesn't."

What the fuck was this? Questions about their personal lives? Bellamy had been to plenty of auditions before. He knew they weren't supposed to ask you stuff like this. "Are we gonna get any lines anytime soon?" he asked impatiently.

Instead of answering, Charmaine said, "Go ahead and take your shirt off."

 _Oh, here we go,_ he thought, resigning to yet another audition where his body was more important than his talent. Oh, well. It was part of the job, and at least he had a good body to show off. He lifted his shirt over his head and stood before them like a piece of meat.

"Very nice," Charmaine admired. Then she looked to Clarke and said, "Now you."

 _What the fuck?_ Bellamy nearly blew up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, stepping in front of Clarke, "you can't ask her to do that."

"She does that up on stage," Charmaine stated. "Can't be that different here."

"She's not taking her shirt off," he said, grabbing his girlfriend's hand. "Come on, Clarke, let's go."

"What did you think you'd be doing at this audition?" Charmaine called after them as they headed or the exit.

Slowly, he stopped, and everything started to make sense his head. The couch. The literal casting _couch._

"What do you mean?" Clarke asked, more naïve about this than he should have let her be.

"Oh." He spotted a script in the trash—barely four pages long. Minimal dialogue. Interesting title at the top. " _Pulp Friction,"_ he read. How amusing.

A look of horror crashed onto Clarke's face as she, too, realized exactly what kind of audition they'd stumbled into.

As they hurried back out to the parking lot, she shrieked, "Did we really just audition for a _porno_?"

"No. We _almost_ auditioned for a porno," he corrected. He wasn't about to tell her that he'd _almost_ done one once, back in L.A. when money had been _extremely_ tight.

"I don't know whether this is hilarious or humiliating," she said.

"It's bullshit." He was pretty pissed that they'd wasted time on this, that they'd both, for a minute there, gotten their hopes up. "She should've told you upfront it wasn't just a normal audition."

"Well, then I wouldn't have come."

"Exactly."

It wasn't until they were back out on the road, on their way home until she said, "Bellamy?" And that alone was enough for him to tell . . . she was kind of sad.

"Hmm?"

Looking down at her lap, she mumbled, "She wanted me to audition because I'm a stripper."

"Yeah, so?"

"So . . . she thinks I'd be down for it. Sex on camera. _Because_ I'm a stripper," Clarke explained. "She thinks I'm a slut."

Crap, now he felt even worse for her. It wasn't just that she'd gotten her hopes up; now she felt . . . offended. "You're not, though," he said. Sure, she was a stripper, but she was also a singer, an artist, a dancer. And she _was_ an actress, too. Just not the kind they wanted her to be.

"Most people don't know that, though," she lamented. "They see what I do, and they just _assume_. . ." She trailed off, sighing heavily. "It's just frustrating."

"I know." Hell, he was all too familiar with that kind of frustration. People had always assumed things about his mom, too. And sure, some of them had been true, but some of them hadn't. People didn't know her. Not really. And they didn't know Clarke, either.

But he did. _He_ knew her.

Reaching over, he picked up her hand, holding it in his own as he drove. "I love you," he reminded her. Because right now, it probably didn't hurt to remind her.

She looked over at him, and that sad expression on her face slowly morphed into a happier one. She smiled. Despite feeling frustrated moments before, her mood instantly seemed to be uplifted. "I think we totally would've gotten the parts, though," she joked.

"Oh, for sure," he agreed. Eligius Pictures could cast whoever the hell they wanted for _Pulp Friction._ It wouldn't hold a candle to what he and Clarke did together behind closed doors.

...

Sad as it was to say, Clarke had gotten used to phone calls from her father being few and far between. He claimed he wanted to give her space to be independent, but really, she suspected he was just too busy with his _new_ family. Between his boyfriend and his boyfriend's son, maybe he just didn't have as much time for his daughter anymore.

He called her that night right as she was getting ready for bed. She had her toothbrush in her mouth when she answered the phone, but she quickly spit and rinsed so they could talk. Truth be told, even though she tried really hard not to miss him or her mom . . . she kind of did.

"So wait a minute, Dad, you're actually going to Mom's wedding?" she said incredulously, padding out into the living room.

"Well, we'll see," he responded. "I haven't been invited yet."

"But you think you will be?" That seemed sort of far-fetched. As far as she knew, he and her mom were still mostly communicating through their lawyers and through mutual friends.

"I hope so," he said. "I'd love to spend some time with you."

Clarke knew better than to think that would actually happen. After she'd graduated high school, they were supposed to have had a father/daughter weekend in Branson. But he'd never gotten around to taking her, so she'd just swallowed her disappointment and accepted that it would never happen now. "Are you gonna bring Thelonious?" she questioned.

"Possibly."

She sat down on the couch, rolling her eyes. "Then maybe you just shouldn't come. That'd be kind of awkward for Mom, don't you think?"

He hesitated, sighed, and then said, "I have to be who I am, Clarke. You of all people should understand that."

 _Me of all people?_ she thought. God, she hated how her dad did this. It was like he expected that she'd be able to empathize with him one-hundred percent just because she was bisexual.

"If you had a girlfriend, how would you feel if I said you couldn't show up to the wedding with her?" he pointedly asked.

Even though she had two boyfriends right now, she imagined what that would be like, and she did see where he was coming from. "Fair enough," she grumbled, sinking down off the couch so she could sit on the floor.

"Besides, things have finally started to die down around here," he said, sounding optimistic. "People are getting used to . . . the way things are now."

She frowned, wishing it were that simple for her. "I'm still not used to it," she confessed. "I can't believe Mom's getting _married_ again already. You guys have only been divorced for a year." And she still didn't even _like_ the man she was marrying, so that was like extra salt in the wound.

"I know," her father sympathized. "But we should try to be happy for her."

"I am," Clarke groaned. "I agreed to be a bridesmaid and everything." She still wasn't sure why she'd let herself get roped into that, but . . . too late to back out now. Despite how frustrated she'd gotten with her mom lately, she wasn't going to let her down on her big day. Well . . . big day, take two.

"What about you, sweetheart?" her father asked. "How are things with Finn?"

She nearly laughed at that, because if only he knew . . . "Fine," she said vaguely. "He's got a really big job lined up, so . . . we're excited about that." Of course, they were excited for two totally different reasons, but . . .

"That's great," her father said. "Hey, I hear you've got a friend out there."

"You do?" He'd heard about Bellamy? How?

"Yeah. Monty's girlfriend," he said. "What was her name?"

She breathed a small sigh of relief. "Oh, Harper." Yeah, she had a whole whopping _two_ good friends. But at least he'd heard about the one she _wasn't_ sleeping with.

"Yes. Thelonious and I had dinner with Monty's parents the other night," her father went on. "They said he's planning on spending spring break with her."

"Yeah, they like each other a lot. They're making the long-distance thing work." It was honestly pretty adorable to see Harper's face just light up whenever she talked about or even thought about Monty. And their little online exchanges over Instagram and Twitter were pretty cute.

"Is it true that she's a . . ." Her father lowered his voice, mumbling, "Well, Monty's father mentioned that she dances. For money."

Clarke tensed up a bit. "Yeah, so?"

"So she's a stripper?" He sounded . . . either surprised or appalled. Or maybe both?

"Exotic dancer, Dad," Clarke corrected. _Stripper_ had such a negative connotation attached to it.

"And _Monty's_ dating her?" he asked in disbelief. "His parents are _letting_ him date her?"

"He's an adult now, Dad," she pointed out. "He can do what he wants." It wasn't like he needed their permission or approval.

"Well, I suppose, but . . . I would've thought he'd have higher standards than that."

 _Higher standards?_ Talk about a knife in the gut. "What do you mean?" she asked, even though she was pretty sure she didn't want to hear anymore.

"Well, Monty's always been a bright, capable kid."

"Well, Harper's a bright, capable woman," she argued, hating that her own father would judge someone he didn't even know just based off of what she did for work. "She only does what she does so she can pay for college. She's graduating in a couple months; she'll have a degree. She's not stupid or a slut or any of the things strippers get stereotyped to be. And she's my friend."

Her dad didn't apologize for any of his remarks. In fact, all he said to that was, "Hmm," and then it seemed like, thankfully, he was going to let it go. But then he made it worse when he added, "Just be careful. I wouldn't want you getting caught up in any of that."

What was she even supposed to say to that? Her dad had no idea that she was already caught up. _So_ caught up. In fact, she'd _surpassed_ Harper. She was doing things that would disgust him, things that might make his phone calls even fewer and farther in between than they already were. Things that might make him disown her as a daughter.

She tried to hold back her tears, but they fell anyway, and with the phone still to her ear, she remained silent as she wiped them away.

That night, as she lay in bed with a snoring Finn, her back towards him, she just felt . . . bad. The whole day had ended up dragging her down. First was that woman thinking she'd be willing to do an adult film, and now this conversation with her dad . . . she just felt judgment in waves. Except her dad didn't even know he had judged her.

She wasn't having any luck falling asleep, so she slipped out of bed and quietly grabbed her keys out of her purse. She made sure they didn't jingle or jangle at all as she crept through the apartment and out the door. She tiptoed over to Bellamy's and used the key he'd had made for her to let herself inside.

He was sprawled out in his bed, fast asleep, shirt off, hair everywhere. He looked so good, not just physically, but . . . he looked _good_. Because he was a good man. And she was in love with him.

She ended up pulling back the sheet and crawling into bed with him, squeezing onto the mattress, curling up against his side. He didn't wake up, but he did scoot over a bit to make more room for her, and perhaps unconsciously, he wrapped his arm around her to hold her close. Lying there with him felt so much better, and sleep suddenly seemed so much more possible.


	44. Chapter 44

_Chapter 44_

"Splits, Clarke!" Harper shouted. "Get your legs out."

Try as she might, Clarke just couldn't quite get the position of this move right. What was it called, the spinning chopstick? It had sounded painful, and it was painful. "Sorry," she said, letting go of the pole with the one arm she'd been holding on with, "but this is killing me." How was she supposed to spin and do the splits at the same time? And hang on with just one hand and reach for her foot with the other? Harper made it look so easy, but it wasn't.

"You're really close to getting it, actually," Harper said. "You just have to practice it some more." She tossed Clarke her water bottle and declared, "Okay, drink break. Then I'm gonna teach you the spin Vivian nearly broke her neck trying to do."

"Can't wait." Clarke took a mighty swig, feeling the strain of having been at this for nearly an hour already.

"Well, I gotta pass these things along, you know," Harper said. "And then someday you can teach the other girls."

"Someday." She took another drink, then set her water bottle back down on the floor, right up against the wall. "So has Monty seen you do any of these moves?" she asked teasingly.

Harper smiled and blushed. "Maybe."

Monty had to be the envy of every guy in their graduating class then. He'd gone from being the guy in high school who couldn't get a date to the guy in college who was dating someone beautiful enough to be a model. "We should send him a video," she suggested.

"Right now?"

"Yeah. Just spring it on him while he's in the middle of an exam or something." Clarke laughed at the thought.

"No, I don't wanna distract him."

"Suit yourself." She thought it'd be funny. Monty himself would probably think it was funny. And apparently so would his family. Because they liked Harper. They embraced her. "So it's pretty great that he and his parents are all so cool about the stripping stuff, huh?" she said.

"Yeah, they've all been really understanding."

Clarke nodded, feeling . . . envious. "What about _your_ parents?" she asked. "Do they know?"

"Oh, yeah," Harper replied without hesitation. "I told them I was gonna do it before I even started doing it." She grabbed hold of one of the poles and spun around slowly, almost lazily, not really trying to do any sort of spectacular move. "My mom's got health issues, and my dad doesn't make much money," she revealed, "so they both understood I just wanted to pay for college. And now, I think they're actually kind of proud I'm gonna graduate without any debt."

 _Huh,_ Clarke thought, feeling like most parents wouldn't be so accepting of it. "I wish I could count on my mom and dad being proud of me," she said.

"Well, maybe they won't react as bad as you think."

"No, they'll be disappointed," Clarke predicted. "Trust me, my parents and I are experts at disappointing each other by now." That was part of the reason why they couldn't find out. Relationships between the three of them were already fractured enough. No need to make it even worse.

"Hey, Clarke?" Anya called, poking her head out of her office suddenly. "Somebody's on the phone for you."

Clarke made a face. On the phone? Somebody had called the club for her?

"Go ahead," Harper urged.

She slinked back into Anya's office, feeling a sense of trepidation she couldn't quite explain. "Who is it?" she asked.

"I don't know," Anya answered.

Well, that was helpful. Clarke picked up the old landline phone on her desk and squeaked out an unsure, "Hello?"

A slight hesitation, then . . . "Hi, Clarke."

Immediately, her whole body tensed, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She recognized that low, raspy voice.

"Surprised to hear from me?"

 _Roan._ The mere sound of his voice made her skin crawl. He was supposed to be leaving her alone. Why was he calling her here? "What do you want?" she asked outright, not sure if she should figure out what he was up to or just hang up the damn phone.

"What I want," he said slowly, "and what I _need_ . . . is a favor."

Oh god, she felt like she was about to throw up. "I'm not doing any favors for you," she said.

"You used to."

Ugh, she could just picture him in her mind, grinning smugly as he recalled all the things he'd convinced her to do.

"Let me give you the short version," he said. "I'm in a bit of a bind here in Boston."

Well, at least he wasn't back in New York. A small miracle.

"Some bitch decided she wanted to accuse me of sexual assault. Can you imagine that?"

She shuddered, and Anya must have noticed it, because she asked, "Clarke, are you okay?"

No, she wasn't okay. Her eyes shooting out into the rehearsal room, she found Harper and motioned out to the bar. Harper mouthed " _Bellamy?_ " back, and Clarke nodded hurriedly. Thankfully, her friend scampered right on out to get him.

"So I need some money to pay her off, make her go away," Roan finished. "Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm rich. I've got money. But I've been spending it. Too much. So I need help. I need you to pay me back the money I gave you. Plus some."

Her mind began to race. The money he'd given her . . . the check she hadn't ever cashed? She'd thrown it away. She hadn't wanted it then, and she didn't want it now.

"Are you still listening, Clarke?"

Unfortunately, she was, and Anya was still eyeing her curiously. "Yes."

"Three thousand dollars," Roan said. "That's what I need."

"What?" she shrieked. "But you only gave me-"

"One thousand, I know," he cut in. "But I need three. Shouldn't be too hard. Just put on a few good shows, be the good little slut you are."

She flinched.

"Will you do that for me?"

 _Bellamy, where are you?_ she wondered. She needed him. Honestly, talking to Roan like this . . . it made her feel like she was about to fall over. "No," she said, determined not to do him any more _favors_.

"That's too bad," he grumbled, though he didn't sound surprised. "Because if you don't . . . I might just have to tell your boss what you and Bellamy are up to, how he came to my house, threatened my _life_ . . . all for you."

 _No,_ she thought, relieved but also panicked when she looked back out into the rehearsal room and saw him striding in, Harper behind him.

"Hell, I might even have to tell the police that."

Her heart started to beat faster, fearfully. Could he really still get Bellamy into trouble with the law? She wouldn't be able to forgive herself if he ended up in jail just for protecting her.

Bellamy came into the office, and she held the phone out with a shaky hand. He took it from her and growled loudly into the receiver, "Who the hell's this?"

Clarke could hear Roan cackle loudly before practically yelling, "Nice to hear from you, too, Bellamy!"

Bellamy's jaw tightened, and his brow furrowed. He gripped the phone so tightly, he looked like he might be able to crush it. Harper and Anya both stood there, looking at him with confusion on their faces. They didn't know . . .

They didn't know how bad things had gotten for a while there.

...

"What're we gonna do?" Clarke fretted.

Bellamy looked around the restaurant he'd taken her to. Some new place with good food and reasonable prices. Would've been a nice spot for a date, but they both had too much on their mind to really enjoy it there, and neither one of them had eaten much of their food. "Tell me again what he said," he told her.

She dragged one hand through her hair, looking more than a little stressed out. "He said he wants three thousand dollars," she repeated. "To pay off a girl who's claiming he did something to her."

"I'm sure he did." Different city, same Roan. Bastard.

"Bellamy . . ." Clarke's voice was barely above a whisper when she said, "I thought this was over."

"It is," he promised. "We're not gonna pay him."

"But he threatened to go to the police and tell them what you did," she pointed out.

"I'm done lettin' that guy threaten me." Last time, giving in to his threats hadn't worked, for him or for Clarke. They'd ended up letting him have the upper hand, and he wasn't making that same mistake again.

"But what're you gonna do if-"

"He's not gonna do it," Bellamy argued. "I'm calling his bluff." He was well aware that that . . . seemed risky. "Think about it. I didn't just go over there and point a gun at him-"

"A fake gun," Clarke cut in.

"I didn't do that just for kicks. I had a reason," he reminded her. "And he doesn't want anyone to find out about that reason, especially not right now. If he's already got one girl claiming he assaulted her, the last thing he needs is for another to come forward and add fuel to the fire."

Clarke thought about that for a moment, slowly nodding. "So he won't talk about what happened . . . because he doesn't want _me_ to talk about what happened," she said.

"Exactly." Of course, he couldn't be one-hundred percent sure about that, but . . . he felt confident. If Roan didn't have money anymore, then he didn't have power. And if he didn't have power, then all he had were empty threats.

"But what about Anya?" Clarke worried. "He could easily tell her."

That was true, but there was still one way around it. "Not if we tell her first," he said. It was a risk, and he knew that. But if he lost his job over all of this, then so be it. All that mattered to him was closing the door on this chapter of Clarke's life for good.

...

Bellamy felt . . . uneasy when he knocked on the door to Anya's office. But this had to be done.

"Come in," she called.

He opened the door and stepped in, Clarke following him. "Hey, Anya, can we talk to you?"

She glanced up from the papers on her desk, looking surprised to see both of them in there together. "I suppose this has something to do with that phone call she got earlier," she said, motioning to Clarke.

Clarke bit her bottom lip as they sat down. "Yeah, unfortunately."

Anya set her papers aside, leaning back in her chair, one hand on each arm of it, looking way too intimidating for her own good. "It was Roan, wasn't it?"

Clarke gulped, looking down at her lap. "Yes."

Anya shook her head, and Bellamy couldn't tell if she was angry or worried. "What's going on?" she questioned.

He and Clarke exchanged a look. They'd agreed that she would be the one to tell Anya, that it would just make Anya more sympathetic to hear it from her. "Well . . . back when he was . . . here . . ." she said, shifting around in her chair. "After Ontari died, he sort of turned his attention to me."

Bellamy winced. Yeah, that was one way to put it.

"I noticed," Anya said. "I was hoping you'd kept your distance, but something tells me you didn't."

Clarke wrung her fingers together nervously. "Well, things escalated to the point where he was basically coercing me . . ."

"Threatening," Bellamy corrected. There was a difference.

"He threatened you?" Anya asked, alarm in her eyes.

"No, he—he threatened Bellamy," Clarke clarified. "He convinced me to do some things with him I didn't really wanna do, but I felt like I had to, so . . ." She trailed off, blinking back tears, and all Bellamy wanted to do was reach over and take her hand, or put his arm around her. But he couldn't do that. "I don't really wanna elaborate on it," she said, "but now he's basically trying to hold that over my head and get me to send him money so he can buy this other girl's silence."

Anya sighed heavily as she took that all in. At first, she didn't say anything. But then she shook her head and said, "You can't send him any money."

"No, I'm not going to," Clarke assured her. "But he said he'd tell you about all of this if I didn't."

"So we're telling you now," Bellamy put in, hoping honesty might count for something. Better late than never.

"And how exactly do you fit into all of this, Bellamy?" Anya asked him. "Roan threatened you, but I have a feeling you threatened him right back."

Oh, he sure as hell had. It'd taken him a little longer than it should have, but he didn't fucking regret it. "I pointed a gun in his face," he revealed. "Told him I'd kill him and his girlfriend if he ever did anything to Clarke again."

Anya's eyes bulged in disbelief. "You did _what_?"

"It wasn't a real gun," Clarke quickly added in.

"No, but he thought it was real," Bellamy said. "He said he was gonna tell you and tell the cops, but we think he's bluffing about that one."

"Oh dear god," Anya muttered, rubbing her head right between her eyebrows. " _Where_ did you point the gun at him?" she growled. "In the club?"

"No, not here." She didn't have to worry about any lawsuits or anything like that.

"Look, we think he's grasping at straws here," Clarke said. "It sounds like he's broke. But we don't want him to have any leverage over us, so we thought we'd just come clean with you. And we know you're not happy, but-"

"You're damn right I'm not happy!" Anya shouted. She sounded . . . pretty pissed. It was rare for Anya to raise her voice, and Bellamy was taken aback by it. But she calmed back down quickly and spoke evenly again when she said, "Clarke, you should've told me about all of this right when it started."

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry."

Bellamy frowned. Clarke didn't have to be sorry for any of this. She was the victim here.

"I'm not blaming you," Anya said. "I just . . ." She clenched her hands into fists momentarily, as though she were struggling to keep her cool. "I wish you had told me. We could've handled it. I'm so sorry he did this to you."

Clarke just nodded silently and sadly in agreement.

"You should go now," Anya suggested.

They were both quick to get up, but Anya wasn't ready to let Bellamy leave.

" _Not_ you," she snarled at him. "Sit."

He and Clarke exchanged a worried look, and slowly, he sat back down. She left, even though she probably didn't want to, and Anya called, "Shut the door, please," after her. So she did.

 _Here we go,_ Bellamy thought. His boss was about to rip him a new one. He'd have been lying had he said he hadn't anticipated this.

"Didn't I warn you?" she growled.

"About what?" As if he didn't know.

"Getting too close to Clarke. Do you realize how much danger you put yourself in, Bellamy? Do you realize what could have happened?"

Yeah, he knew he'd been reckless in how he'd handled the situation, but he just didn't fucking care. "I'm not gonna sit here and apologize for looking after her," he said. "Someone has to."

"You could've told me," she repeated. "I would've-"

"No, you wouldn't!" he shouted, fed up with Anya's delusional belief that she actually took care of the girls who worked for her. "You sit here and act like you would've done all sorts of things, but we both know that's bullshit. You never did anything when he had his hooks in Ontari, and you would've let Clarke go down that same path."

Anya looked stunned to have such a truth bomb dropped on her, and she probably didn't want to admit the truth in it. "I care about these girls," she insisted.

"Not enough." If she really cared about them, she'd shut this place down.

"You're so quick to criticize me," she said. "But until Clarke came along, it didn't seem like you cared very much, either."

He didn't have any snappy comeback for that one. Because . . . it was true.

"You care about _one_ girl, Bellamy," Anya said, glaring at him. "We both know that."

Fine, they both knew that then. It wasn't like he _didn't_ care about Harper, who'd been his friend for almost two years now, or didn't care about Roma, who he used to sleep with; but he cared about Clarke on a different level. Why was it so hard for her to see that that wasn't necessarily a bad thing?

"So what, you're gonna fire me?" he said, wanting to cut to the chase and get this over with. "For doing what I had to do to keep your new Number One safe?"

She stared at him for a few seconds, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, she looked sympathetic for just a moment. But it wasn't enough to keep her from saying, "I think you need to take a few days off. Clear your head."

If that was code for the inevitable, then he'd rather just know now. "And then you're gonna fire me," he predicted.

"Bellamy-"

"I've been working here for years. I do my job well."

"I know," she said, and there it was again, that flash of sympathy. "Which is why I don't _want_ to fire you."

"But you might." He pressed his lips together tightly, trying to refrain from saying more, from saying something that might make him _deserve_ to get fired. But this sucked. This sucked so much. Not only was he going to potentially lose his only reliable source of income, but he was probably going to lose touch with what was going on there at that club. If Clarke worked there and he didn't, then it was gonna be even harder to keep an eye on her.

He was pretty pissed when he left, but really, he wasn't surprised. If Anya _hadn't_ gotten upset with him, then _that_ would've been the surprising thing. She was _so_ determined to keep her employees from getting together, and she was such a control freak that she actually thought she had the power to make that happen.

"Well, I might not have a job anymore," he muttered as he joined Clarke outside, where she was waiting at her car.

"What? No."

"She wants me to take a couple days off." He reached into his pocket, _really_ wishing he had a cigarette right about now. Not that he was gonna start smoking again, but . . . dammit, that would have calmed him down.

"What does that mean?" she said.

"What do you think it means, Clarke?" He didn't mean to snap at her, too, but he was kind of fired up right now. "I swear to God, I almost just quit right there."

"No, I'm glad you didn't," she said. "Why would she fire you?"

"Because I'm too close to you. Because I'm violating her stupid policy." He rolled his eyes, pissed as _hell_ , but in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder if there was perhaps a silver lining to all of this. "You know what we should do? We should both quit," he suggested. Hell, it'd be worth losing his job if it got her out of there, too.

"And what, go film _porn_ for a living?"

"No." There were other bars he could tend and other jobs she could get. But he did worry that she'd leave one strip club and go find another, one that was even more dangerous to her than this one was.

"Okay, let's just—let's just give her a day or two to take everything in and process it," Clarke suggested. "She still doesn't know we're together, right?"

He grunted. "She can probably tell."

"No, but neither one of us has ever confirmed it," she reminded him. "And Harper and Murphy . . . they won't say anything. So as far as she knows, we're just really close friends. Really close friends isn't breaking any rules. If we give her a little time, maybe she'll calm down and see that you really were just looking out for me."

 _I was,_ he thought. _While I was falling in love with you._

"She's not gonna fire you," Clarke said, but obviously she wasn't one-hundred percent confident about that.

"We'll see." He'd start looking around for other jobs, just in case.

...

What had begun as a simple day of rehearsal had morphed into a mess. Clarke was in a horrible mood when she got home. Not only had she had to speak with Roan today, but now Bellamy was potentially out of a job. All because of her.

In contrast, Finn seemed to be in a _great_ mood. When she walked in the door, she found him sitting at the desk, eyes on the computer. He barely even glanced up at her as he said, "Hey, Clarke, come look at this."

Whatever _this_ was, it was bright and colorful and sunny. She dragged herself over to the computer, peered down to get a better look, and saw what looked like an open courtyard of some kind.

"This is one of the hotels we're gonna be staying in," he informed her.

"Wow, looks nice." Finn definitely wasn't going to get the authentic Mexico experience; he'd be getting the tourist one.

"Yeah. Look at the pool," he said, clicking onto another photo.

It was indeed extravagant. There was a fountain in the middle of it and everything. "So I take it you're gonna have _some_ time to relax," she said. "It won't all be work."

"No, it'll be great," he said. "I wish you could come."

It'd be a nice place to travel, sure, but expensive, too. "We don't have enough money for that."

"I know," he said. "But maybe if I talk to Cage . . ."

"Don't even finish that sentence," she interrupted. "Come on, you know Cage isn't gonna pay for _me_ to tag along. Besides, I've got my own job." _And another boyfriend,_ she thought. _Sorry, Finn, but those three weeks belong to him._

"You dancin' tonight?" he asked her.

"No. Thank God." She was too upset with Anya to go put on a show for her club-goers tonight. Even though she prided herself on her performance quality and her ability to put on a convincing act up there on stage, tonight, she didn't feel like she could play the part.

"What's wrong?" Finn questioned.

Just the fact that he'd even picked up on something being wrong was . . . miraculous. "I just kind of had a stressful day," she replied vaguely.

"Well, come here." Grinning, he reached up and grabbed her hand, pulling her down on top of his lap, and apparently he didn't notice her tense up. "Let me de-stress you." His hands found her hips, which she could handle, but then they started to squeeze her ass, which seemed to be a hint.

"Finn . . ." She pushed on his chest to put a little more space in between them.

"I know we've been taking things slow, trying to reconnect," he said, "but . . . it's gonna be three weeks, Clarke. Three weeks without each other. Don't you think we should try to reconnect before then?" His hands got even more daring as they started to slip down the back of her jeans.

"God, did you not just hear me say I had a bad day?" she bit out accusatorily, swatting his hands away.

"No, I did."

She shot up off his lap, not stopping. "And you know what? You pressuring me right now is not making it any better."

"I'm not trying to pressure you," he insisted.

"Well, that's what it feels like." She stormed off down the hall.

"Clarke, I'm sorry," he called after her. And it actually kind of sounded genuine.

She stomped into the bedroom and slammed the door shut, making the whole thing a little more dramatic than it needed to be. She didn't _really_ feel that pressured, not like she had with Roan. Finn was just a horny nineteen year old guy who was struggling with all the lack of sex they were having. But she wasn't about to sleep with him while she was sleeping with Bellamy. That wasn't fair to either one of them. Of course, she didn't owe it to Finn to be fair to him; but she _did_ owe it to Bellamy. He'd put a lot of trust in her, and she wasn't going to break it.


	45. Chapter 45

_Chapter 45_

Although he hadn't slept particularly well, getting a call from his sister rejuvenated Bellamy a bit. He wandered out onto his balcony to take it, getting a big yawn out of the way before he started talking. "Wow, another phone call instead of a text," he answered. "You must really love your big brother lately."

"Don't flatter yourself," she teased. "I'm just extremely bored."

"Aren't you supposed to be in school right now?" he asked. It was already 10:00 here, and Louisiana was an hour behind.

"Yeah," she confessed, "but I'm kind of over high school."

 _Over_ it? "Seriously, O?"

" _Yes,_ " she groaned dramatically. "But it's okay, I'm already accepted into college."

"You gotta finish strong, though." That was a load of crap and he knew it. Second semester of senior year was a joke.

"Oh, whatever," she said dismissively. "Ilian's coming over later. We're gonna . . . well, you already know what we're gonna do, so I'm not gonna say it."

That was enough to make him feel like puking. "Gross, O."

"What? Like it's any different than what you and Clarke are up to."

He and Clarke were up to a whole lot of things. But he and Clarke were older than Octavia. Well, Clarke wasn't really _that_ much older, but . . . that was kind of weird to think about, too.

"No denial," she remarked. "Does that mean I can take this as confirmation?"

"Take it however you want." He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't want her asking too many questions, either. He was the big brother, so he had to at least _try_ to set a good example. With that in mind, he really didn't want Octavia finding out he and Clarke were technically having an affair.

"Ha, I knew it!" she exclaimed.

Eager to change the subject, he asked, "How's Mom?"

His sister hesitated a bit before answering, "She's alright. She's kinda working a lot."

That was nothing new. But as long as she was working a legitimate job instead of working a street corner, things were going fine. "You guys need any help with money?" he offered.

"It might not hurt," she said. "If you've got anything you can send . . ."

"Yeah, I'll see what I can do." He could scrape together a couple hundred bucks, maybe, send it her way. Octavia would have to lie and say she found it or something, though, because his mom would be way too reluctant to ever willingly accept money from him.

He glanced back over his shoulder when he heard the balcony door slide open, and out came Clarke, already dressed in her running clothes, smile on her face. "I gotta go, Octavia," he said as Clarke wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against his back. "But thanks for calling."

"Don't get used to it."

Laughing lightly, he ended the call. "Finn must be gone for the day," he said when Clarke started to nibble on his ear.

"Sure is," she whispered.

He grinned, turning around so he could scoop her up in his arms and carry her back inside the apartment. No need to go for a run then. They could get plenty of exercise in bed.

...

Clarke chanced a visit to Grounders that night, just because she wanted to see how things were going without Bellamy. Niylah was on vacation, so that pretty much left Murphy alone at the bar. And Harper was headlining, and they were still pulling in new people from Polis. So it'd be a busy, rowdy night.

When Clarke got there, Harper was in the middle of her routine. She was in full on Beach Babe persona, parading around the stage in a skimpy bikini, much to the audience's delight. There was a lot of shouting, making it louder in there than it usually was, and the new crowd of men . . . well, they definitely weren't shy. Or polite.

Veering towards the bar, Clarke saw something that made her heart sink: There was another bartender back there, good-looking like Bellamy, but not _quite_ so good-looking. And Murphy was showing him the ropes, telling him how to do things. Training him.

 _No,_ Clarke thought. _No._ She approached the bar and said, "Hey. Murphy."

He must not have heard her over the noise, and it took him a moment to notice her. "Oh, hey, Clarke," he said. Motioning down to the other end of the bar, he told the new guy, "Go ahead and go serve those people."

Clarke waited until the trainee was gone to question, "Who's that?"

Murphy shrugged. "I don't know. Anya just brought him in tonight, told me to show him the ropes."

"She hired a new bartender." It'd been _one day_ since she'd suggested to Bellamy that he 'take some time off.' The least she could do was actually outright fire him so he knew to go look around for another job.

"I don't know if she actually hired him," Murphy said. "Between you and me, it's not lookin' so good. The guy can't tell the difference between a Drunken Sailor and a Fearless Redneck."

Clarke made a face. "Are those drinks?"

"Yeah."

"Well, good. I don't want a new bartender." She wanted _her_ bartender. Plain and simple.

Murphy turned around, grabbed a bottle of _something,_ and poured it into a glass. "What's goin' on with Bellamy?" he asked.

"Anya's mad at him."

He took a drink and gave her a curious look. "What, did she find out about . . ." He motioned to her.

"No. But she knows we're close."

"But she doesn't know you're groin-to-groin close," Murphy said. "Knocking boots. Buttering the biscuit. Doing the no pants dance."

"Yes, thank you for all those helpful euphemisms." Hopefully he didn't mention any of them around Anya. "Please don't tell her."

"Relax, your secret's safe with me," he assured her.

That was good and all, but it still didn't solve the problem of Bellamy not working here. "Maybe you could put in a good word for him, though," she suggested, "tell her you need him back here?" Maybe hearing it from someone other than her would do the trick.

"Yeah, but I don't really wanna lose my job, either," he said.

"She has no reason to fire you. Besides, Bellamy's your friend. You know he'd do the same for you."

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I'll talk to her."

"Thanks, Murphy." It was a long shot, but it was still _worth_ a shot.

"Here, have a drink," he said, sliding his glass towards her.

She gave him a raised-eyebrow look. He knew she wasn't old enough, and Bellamy never let him serve her.

"That secret's safe with me, too," he said, smirking.

Oh, good old Murphy. She smiled at him appreciatively as he went to rescue the guy he was supposed to be training. He appeared to be concocting a truly horrific drink, and customers were starting to yell at him.

Clarke took a big swig and thought about turning around to watch the rest of Harper's show, but before she got the chance, someone took a seat on the open barstool next to her. The same woman who had approached her the other night about 'auditioning.' Charmaine Diyoza.

"Aren't you a little young to be drinking?" she commented.

Clarke side-eyed her, already annoyed. "You think I'm too young to drink but not too young to do porn?"

"Nope. Fresh outta high school. Pervs love that shit."

Clarke wrinkled her face in disgust, swirling the remaining liquid around in the bottom of the glass. "So is this what you do, just scout strip clubs for girls who might be willing to be in one of your films?"

"Sometimes." Charmaine leaned back against the bar, her eyes on Harper. "How about the one up on stage? She's good. Any chance she's interested?"

Immediately, Clarke felt the need to shut that idea down so that Harper didn't have to deal with any of this offensive crap. "No. She's way too classy for what you do."

"Classy?" Charmaine echoed, laughing. "Okay, whatever you say, Clarke."

"You don't know anything about the girls who work here," Clarke informed her. "You don't know anything about me."

"Pretty sure I do." Charmaine looked her up and down and said, "Let me guess: Small town girl, felt trapped, moved to the big city to start a whole new life for herself. This is where she ended up. How'd I do?"

 _Damn,_ she thought. This woman was kind of turning out to be a bitch, but she was pretty intuitive.

"I've been in your shoes before. Grew up in Tennessee," Charmaine revealed, reaching over to take the glass right out of Clarke's hand. She downed the rest of the drink like it was nothing. "I'll save you the Daddy-never-loved-me shit, but suffice to say, it made me the woman I am today."

Clarke eyed her critically. The woman she was today . . . was not as pleasant as she'd originally come off. All that talk about how Clarke could act, and maybe, as it turned out, this woman had been acting all along, too.

"This is how it starts, you know," Charmaine warned. "Just a little dancing, a little stripping. Then when they get tired of you, they want more. So you have to give them more if you wanna stay relevant."

 _More?_ Her skin prickled. God, wasn't she already giving them enough?

"Tell me, what're you gonna do when your bartender boyfriend knocks you up?" Charmaine inquired bluntly. "And then you can't dance for months."

"Well, I'm _not_ gonna do porn. I can tell you that much," Clarke vowed.

Charmaine smirked. "You say that now. I used to say that, too."

Clarke tensed. So this woman didn't just recruit other girls for porn, she'd actually starred in it herself?

"It wasn't all bad, though," Charmaine said. "If I'd never done the films, I wouldn't be where I am now."

"And where you are now?" Clarke grunted. "It's the same place I am."

"Yeah. But something tells me I go home to a nicer house than you do."

Clarke looked away, ashamed to admit that that was probably true. She made money, sure, but not enough to get her and Finn out of that crappy apartment they'd come to call a home.

"How about your boyfriend, though?" Charmaine asked, clearly referring to Bellamy. "He looks like the type who'd be willing to do it."

"No," Clarke said simply.

"Hmm, too bad. The industry needs more good-looking men." Charmaine sighed wistfully, once again returning to watching Harper for a few seconds. But then she looked back at Clarke and started talking about Bellamy again. "Is his dick big?" she asked.

Clarke was so caught off guard by that question, she couldn't even answer it.

"I'll take that as a yes." Charmaine laughed. "Missed opportunity then. You two could've made quite the pair on screen. Big tits, big cock . . . everyone knows that stuff sells."

"God, you really think I'm a whore," Clarke mumbled angrily. "You think just because I work here, I have no dignity, no self-respect."

Charmaine narrowed her eyes at her and challenged, "Do you?"

The question . . . was unsettling. Because Clarke knew that, a year ago, she never would have imagined herself working at a club like this. But things had changed; _she_ had changed. "More than you have," she shot back.

Their unfriendly conversation probably would have continued had it not been for a man who came up and interrupted them. Clarke recognized him from the other night. He was one of the loud guys from Polis. Charmaine had called him something. McSomething or another?

"Hey. How about this one?" he asked, pointing up to the stage. "I'd do her in a minute."

Charmaine shook her head. "No dice, McCreary. Clarke here says she's too _classy_."

McCreary's focus immediately shifted, and he licked his lips and smiled at her lasciviously. "Clarke. You dance here, don't you?"

"She does," Charmaine answered for her. "She's the Girl Next Door."

"She's gorgeous," McCreary said, talking about her like she wasn't even there. "When do I get to fuck her?"

"You don't," Clarke snapped, starting to feel uncomfortable.

"She turned us down," Charmaine said, pouting.

McCreary shook his head. "Too bad." Putting one arm over Clarke's shoulder, he leaned down and seethed in her ear, "Everyone out there on the Internet would beat off to you in a heartbeat."

 _Get away from me,_ Clarke thought, shrugging him off of her. _Just get away._

Thankfully, that creep of a man didn't linger there for long. He grabbed a beer and then headed back out to rejoin his boys, probably fellow porn stars, and watch the end of Harper's routine. But that left Clarke sitting there with Charmaine, which really wasn't much better.

"Cheers," Charmaine said, raising her empty glass in a toast.

...

It was getting late. Bellamy knew Clarke would have to go home soon. She'd told Finn a lie of some kind, probably that she was going to be hanging out with Harper well into the night. So maybe she could stay a little longer, but if Finn was any decent kind of boyfriend at all, he'd be wondering where she was soon, and he'd call her to check in.

"Mmm," Clarke purred as she lay nearly atop his chest. She was moving around less and less now, and every time she spoke, she sounded sleepier. "I love having sex with you."

He smoothed his hand up her back, then back down again, sliding beneath the thin sheet that covered them both. "I noticed."

"Not just because of orgasms and stuff," she said, her breath tickling his chest. "It's you. You don't make me feel like a thing."

That was good to hear, especially since he knew there were plenty of girls he _had_ treated like things in the past. Bree and . . . Bree, mostly. Plus, there were a lot of others, girls he'd slept with once or twice and then been done with forever. "Does Finn make you feel that way?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she confessed.

 _Sometimes?_ He hated the thought of that. Clarke didn't deserve to feel anything less than amazing. _All_ the time.

"And Roan made me feel that way," she went on. "And that Charmaine woman . . . she was at the club. And _she_ made me feel like a thing."

Oh, great. Another hassle for her to deal with. "What'd she say?"

She sighed. "It doesn't matter."

It _did_ matter, though. If it upset her, it mattered to him.

"Sometimes I feel sad here," she admitted quietly. Sounded like she was about to fall asleep any minute. "Sometimes I feel bad about myself."

 _Why?_ he wondered. Clarke was a great girl. She was so special to him. Maybe she just had too many people around her objectifying her, making her feel like less than what she really was.

"But you make me feel happy," she finished up, and _that_. . . that was a major fucking relief. Because he sort of felt like it was his job to make her feel that way. And it was a job he loved doing and was gonna keep on doing forever.

He buried one hand in her hair, rubbing the back of her head, and kissed her forehead gently as she nodded off. He didn't have to say it, because she already knew: She made him happy, too.

...

It was so loud in that club. So damn loud. Clarke could barely even hear her music, so she mostly had to rely on muscle memory and just do what _felt_ right. Whether she was in time with the music or not, she wasn't entirely sure, but the crowd was eating up her performance anyway. Maybe a little too much.

"Shake that tail, pussycat!" one man hollered as she turned around and circled her hips. With her back to him, she was able to roll her eyes in utter annoyance, because . . . _pussycat_? _Tail_? Really? She was a fucking human being, not an animal.

When she whirled back around, however, she got right back in character, putting on her best seductive face, trying to seem unfazed by all the yelling.

"Yeah, you make me hard, bitch!"

 _I'm not a bitch,_ she thought, trying to ignore him.

Another man shouted out, "You sexy little cunt!" and that one rattled her a bit. That word . . . it'd rattle any girl.

Forging ahead with the show, she unhooked the front clasp of her bra and pulled it open, just as she'd rehearsed. But unlike she'd rehearsed . . . three men ran up towards the stage. They tried to climb up and reached out for her, and she stumbled backward, frightened.

"Back up, back up!" the two bouncers at the stage shouted, shoving them backwards. One of them jumped in between them, though, and was halfway up on the stage by the time they yanked him back down. And everyone was just _cheering_ them on.

Clarke re-clasped her bra, not sure what to do. The music was still going, but how could she keep dancing in the middle of all of this? Everyone was getting closer to the stage now, and she just wanted to get out of there.

Anya was there in seconds, grabbing her arm and yanking her out of the spotlight. "Get off the stage," she said.

There was no need to tell her twice. Clarke hurried behind the curtain and into the dressing room while Anya yelled, "Throw them out!" and the crowd began to boo. The music ended, and the booing intensified.

Roma was once again back there getting ready, but she stood up when Clarke returned and immediately rushed to her side. "Are you okay?" she asked, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It sounds crazy out there."

"It is." She glanced down at her hands and noticed she was shaking.

"I don't like these new guys," Roma said.

Clarke wasn't liking them, either. She kept hoping they'd get bored once they realized the Grounders girls didn't put out the way the Polis ones did. But they didn't seem to be getting bored with her.

Anya came backstage a minute later, when the booing had finally died down and the DJ had started playing some music again. "Clarke, are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Clarke said. "Just . . . shaken." She grabbed her jacket off the back of her makeup chair and put it on, just to be . . . less exposed.

"They're throwing some of those guys out of here right now," Anya assured her.

"Some of them?" Why not all of them? Everyone who wasn't one of the regulars . . . just get them out.

"Well, there aren't any rules against being loud and obnoxious," Anya pointed out. "There _are_ rules about rushing the stage. The people who broke the rules won't be allowed to be here."

Maybe that was meant to sound reassuring, but to Clarke, it wasn't. Because even though three guys were gone, all their friends were still there.

"Don't worry, you're not going back out there," Anya told her. "You're done for tonight."

"Do I still have to go?" Roma asked, almost fearfully.

"Hopefully once things calm down, you can," Anya said. "Listen, it's just a new clientele. The way they did things at Polis isn't the way we do things here. They'll adapt."

 _Will they?_ Clarke wondered. It'd been a week since they'd started showing up here, and they hadn't seemed to have adapted so far.

"In the meantime, you don't have to worry," Anya insisted. "You know I'll always look out for you girls. I'll keep you safe."

Clarke shot her an accusatory glare and growled, "I'd feel a hell of a lot safer if Bellamy was here."

Anya didn't have a response to that. She sighed, looked away, and then turned and headed back out onto the stage.

Clarke zipped up her jacket, wishing she could run out to that bar and into Bellamy's arms. As damsel in distress of her as it would have been . . . it would've made her feel better.

...

Bellamy was getting ready to head out and go apply at some other bars when there was a knock on his door. He answered it and found Anya there, much to his surprise.

"Can I come in?" she asked without so much as a hello.

Anya had _never_ come by to see him before, so either she'd come with good news or bad news. Had to be one extreme or the other. Slowly stepping aside, he let her in.

Glancing around, surveying the small apartment, she said, "So, this is your place."

"Yeah." It wasn't fancy by any means. Never had been. "Haven't been able to make it as an actor yet, so I kinda rely on bartending to get by," he said, just to lay on the guilt-trip in case she was gonna fire him.

"Look, Bellamy," she said, "I know that things between us have been tense lately, but . . ." She drew it out, longer than was necessary, and he was sure she was gonna hit him with the bad news. Apologize and then hit him with it. He was actually shocked when instead she revealed, "I want you to keep working at the club."

He blinked, confused, having anticipated the opposite.

"You're a good bartender," she complimented him, "and I think Clarke would feel more . . . comfortable with you there."

Clarke was feeling _un_ comfortable without him? She hadn't said anything. "What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing." The way she said that . . . she sounded like someone who was trying to downplay something. "It got a little out of control last night-"

"Is she okay?" He hadn't gotten to see her last night, but she'd sent him a text before bed. She hadn't seemed worked up or anything, but . . . it was a text. He couldn't really tell how worked up she may have been from that.

"She's fine," Anya assured him. "You know, I do care about her, and all the girls who work for me. You seem to think I don't, but I do. And what happened to Ontari . . . I'm not letting that happen to any of my other girls. Ever."

As much as he wanted to believe that, he couldn't help but remain skeptical. Anya wasn't heartless by any means, but she was a businesswoman first and foremost. The success of that club was her number one priority. And there was no other girl there who was as successful as . . . well, her Number One.

Speaking of . . . Clarke strolled right in in the middle of their conversation, looking all cute in the t-shirt and shorts she'd probably worn to bed. "Oh, hey, Bellamy," she said, obviously surprised to see Anya there. "I was just wondering if you had any . . . eggs. That I could use for a cake. I'm baking."

It was a flimsy cover-up, but it'd have to do. "Yeah, in the fridge," he replied.

Clarke kept up the charade, sidling past Anya on her way to the refrigerator. She pretended to be all interested in inspecting the eggs and finding just the right ones. She even held them up to the light as though that were allowing her to see something inside somehow.

"I'll see you tonight, Bellamy," Anya said, giving him a stern look as she left. The kind of look that was probably meant to imply that this was his second chance. And he'd better not screw it up.

When the door was closed and Anya was gone, Clarke slammed the fridge shut, too. "Is she letting you come back to work?" she asked excitedly.

He smirked. "Yeah."

Squealing, she ran and leapt into his arms, hugging him, overjoyed. "Oh, I'm so glad," she exclaimed.

"Yeah, me, too." He held her up, arms securely around her back, and gave her a look. "Eggs, Clarke? Seriously?"

"I had nothing." She laughed, and their lips met together in a kiss.

...

It didn't seem to be a typical Saturday night at Grounders that night. Not as packed as usual, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Bellamy was confused as to why neither Clarke nor Harper was headlining the evening's performances, though. Instead, Anya had given the prime performance time to Roma, and though there were people there and they were watching, there wasn't any buzz in the air about it.

"How come Roma's headlining tonight?" Bellamy asked Murphy, figuring his friend might be more in the loop than he was.

"I think it's all part of Anya's plan to phase some of these losers out," Murphy said. "You know, offer up an inferior product, make 'em lose interest and go somewhere else."

Bellamy shrugged. "Works for me." If that was indeed Anya's plan, it seemed to be working for her, too. A lot of the new guys from Polis had either cleared out or hadn't shown up, so the show Roma was putting on was a lot more . . . typical.

The woman from the porno audition, Charmaine or whatever, wandered over to the bar, getting his attention when she said, "Girlfriend's not dancing tonight?"

She sure as hell wasn't, but he caught himself before saying that. "She's not my girlfriend."

Charmaine snorted. "Could've fooled me." Groaning impatiently when she took one look at Roma, she hollered, "Come on, McCreary. Nothing to see here tonight." She and the guy who seemed to be the leader of the Polis jackasses strode right on out, his arm around her. Probably headed off to go bone or something.

"So we lose Roan and Echo and get those two," Murphy remarked dryly. "Lucky us."

He didn't know Charmaine and McCreary well yet, nor did he want to, but so far, he'd take them over Roan and Echo. McCreary wasn't taking advantage of Clarke on a nightly basis, and Charmaine wasn't trying to find a way to have sex with him. So yeah, so far, even though they were lowlifes, they weren't quite as low as what they'd dealt with before.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and when he checked it . . . text from Clarke. Nice.

He must have had a certain look that came across his face when he read her message— _at dance club with Finn, super bored_ —because Murphy right away guessed, "Is that Clarke?"

"Yeah." He started to type out a response as he talked. "Finn's leaving for Mexico tomorrow, so she's out on a date with him tonight, right over in the dance club."

"That sucks you gotta share her, man."

Yeah, it did. But it wasn't gonna last much longer.

Before he could send his text back, he got another message from her. A much more flirtatious one that said, _Come play with me._

An eager grin found its way to his face. He felt it appear there, couldn't even disguise it. "You got this?" he asked Murphy, figuring his friend could hold down the fort since the club wasn't lit the way it usually was. "I'm gonna take a break."

"Go for it, you lucky bastard," Murphy urged.

Chuckling, he deposited his bar rag underneath the counter, put his phone back in his pocket, and took a _much needed_ break. He crossed over to the dance club, feeling like everything was so much simpler over there. Sure, it had a bar, too, and a DJ, but instead of strippers, there were live bands sometimes. And the occasional karaoke, which he wanted to encourage Clarke to do again. And dancing. The kind people did in groups. The kind that didn't involve girls taking their clothes off.

He scanned the club, first locating Finn at the bar, trying—and apparently failing to convince the female bartender to serve him alcohol. He looked like he was trying to lay on the charm, but she just kept shaking her head, not pouring him anything.

 _Chump._

He kept looking, his eyes finally finding Clarke. She was wearing a little black dress and was hovering towards the far corner of the club, where the bathrooms were located. She was eyeing him intently, a gleam of mischief in her eyes, one that he could see all the way across the crowded room. She wanted him.

She made a _come here_ type of motion with her fingers, and hell, he couldn't even pretend to resist. He moved through the crowd, squeezing past people, right in between some couples, actually, not even caring if he interrupted. He was a man on a mission, and that mission was to get to Clarke and find out just how frisky she was feeling tonight. He was pretty much down for anything.

When he got to her, there was no need to even say anything. She grabbed his hand, pulling him into the women's restroom with her. There were two other girls in there, both of them standing at the mirror, but they were so wrapped up in their own reflections that they didn't even notice him stumble in with her. They scurried into the nearest stall, quickly latching the door shut, and their hands clamored for purchase on each other's bodies right away.

"Oh my god, my hair looks so flat," one of the girls was saying.

Bellamy stifled a laugh as he hiked Clarke's dress up.

"What about mine? It's so frizzy," the other girl said, stereotypical valley girl voice.

Clarke's hands wasted no time finding his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them so she could reach down beneath his underwear and pull his cock out.

"No, you look great. I'm such a mess, though," the girls continued on as Clarke pushed her panties aside. It was the most annoying background noise for sex that Bellamy could imagine, but in a weird way, it kind of turned him on. Just knowing that they were about to do this right here, not even caring that they weren't alone . . . god, it was a rush.

Lifting Clarke, Bellamy groaned gutturally and slammed her back against the door of the stall, jostling the whole thing. He plunged into her and started fucking her right away as she struggled not to slip and fall. She had to hold onto the top of the stall as he started pounding away. There was no disguising what was going on, not with all the sounds they were making and the way her head poked over the top of the stall. Bellamy could only imagine what those two girls were thinking, the looks on their faces.

"Sorry," Clarke said, "don't mind me." She didn't hold back a loud moan as he pressed in even further, stretching her wide for him. He heard shrieks as the girls scampered out, and Clarke just laughed, not afraid of getting caught, not ashamed.

That was his girl. Always the brave princess.


	46. Chapter 46

_Chapter 46_

Clarke waited impatiently out in the parking lot with Finn. Every time some remotely nice vehicle drove down the street, she wondered if it was Cage. Or whomever Cage had driving him, because apparently he didn't like to drive himself. What a prick.

"So I guess being late runs in the family," she commented. Cage had said he'd be there twenty minutes ago.

"I guess," Finn agreed. He sat atop his suitcase, busy on his phone.

"He better get here soon if you guys are gonna make your flight." If it came down to it, she'd drive him to the airport herself. Finn was _not_ missing that flight. Finn was _going_ on that Mexico trip.

"We'll be fine," he said. "It doesn't leave 'til 2:30."

That still gave them a couple of hours then. As long as Cage got there soon, they wouldn't have a problem. "Are you excited?" she asked him.

Finally, he put his phone away and looked up at her. "Yeah."

She sat down on his suitcase with him, reminding him, "Just stay safe, okay? Don't get mugged or kidnapped or drink water out of the tap."

"Okay," he said, chuckling. "You stay safe, too, alright? Don't get mugged or kidnapped or . . . drink water out of the tap."

She made a face. "Yeah, it has been looking a little grimy lately."

"I'll call you every day just to check in, alright?"

Every day? That really didn't seem necessary, especially not when she was gonna be . . . pretty busy. Doing things. "You don't have to," she told him.

"I'll try to," he insisted. "But if for some reason you don't hear from me, I'm probably just working."

She nodded. "Same."

A nice black car whipped into the parking lot, and Finn recognized it right away. "There's Cage," he said, standing up. Clarke stood, too, her skin crawling as Cage rolled down his back window and motioned for Finn to get in.

"Have fun," she told him.

"I will." He gave her a quick kiss, one she didn't manage to turn away from, and then said, "Alright, if you need anything, let Bellamy know."

She had to stifle a laugh. "Will do."

"I love you."

What the hell was she supposed to say to that? She didn't feel like saying she loved him back, so she just pressed on a smile instead.

"I'll see you in three weeks." He hoisted up his suitcase, tossing it into the trunk before he climbed into the backseat with Cage. Clarke heard them whoop and holler as they drove off, and she wasn't exactly sure, but she thought she heard Cage shout, "Bye, bitch!"

 _Whatever,_ she thought, rolling her eyes. She was in no mood to let that bother her right now.

Scampering back inside, she could barely contain her own excitement. Even though she wasn't traveling anywhere, it felt like she was now on vacation, too.

Bellamy must have had some psychic sense or something, because as she scurried down the hall, he poked his head out of his apartment and gave her a questioning look. She nodded eagerly, and he didn't hesitate to leave his place, sweep her up in her arms, and tumble into her apartment with her. He kissed her hungrily, and her hand shot out to shut the door. It was just the two of them now. Alone. "Finally," she gasped in between kisses.

"Yeah." He pressed hot, aggressive kisses down the side of her neck, sucking greedily on her skin as he pressed her back against the wall.

"Do you know what he said? He was like, 'Let Bellamy know if there's anything you need,'" she babbled. "I was like, 'Okay, yeah, I will.'"

"Oh, yeah?" He lifted his head, from her neck, staring at her with undisguised lust in his eyes. "Need anything special right now?"

"Right now . . ." She reached down in between them to undo her jeans. "I kinda need your tongue between my legs."

He licked his lips in anticipation and promised, "I can give you that." He sank down to his knees then, and before she knew it, her pants were off, her panties were pushed aside, and he was pressing his face up into her while she draped one leg over his shoulder.

"Mmm," she moaned, closing her eyes as she ground herself against his mouth. "Oh, yeah . . ." It didn't matter that they were just in a crappy apartment in a crappy neighborhood right now. To her, this was heaven.

...

 _I'm a lucky man,_ Bellamy thought, lying in bed as the aroma of the dinner Clarke was preparing for him wafted down the hall. They'd barely come up for air all day, and now that they had, she insisted he just lie back and take it easy while she cooked for him.

"How's it goin' out there?" he called, wondering if she needed a little help. He was pretty sure she was making pasta, which was hard to screw up, but Clarke had never seemed like much of a wiz in the kitchen to him.

"Good," she called back. "Almost done."

On the nightstand, one of their phones vibrated. He reached for his, but he didn't have any messages. When he picked up hers, though, he saw a text from Finn, but he couldn't see what it said because her passcode was on. "Hey, Finn just texted you," he told her.

"Oh, yeah? Probably telling me he got to the hotel."

"You want me to text him back?"

"No," she answered without hesitation. "In fact, just turn my phone off."

He smirked, happily doing that. No distractions. Perfect.

She came back into the bedroom a minute later, a huge, heaping plate of chicken alfredo in her hands. "Ta-da!" she exclaimed. "Dinner is served."

"Wow, look at this." He carefully took it when she handed it to him, marveling at just how much pasta she'd made. Damn, he could eat, but how the hell was he supposed to eat all of this? "How do I rate, huh?"

"Well, you've given me multiple orgasms today," she reminded him, sitting down on the side of the bed, facing him. "I figured the least I could do is give you alfredo."

"You've given me plenty today, too." He twisted the spaghetti noodles around his fork and remarked, "Looks good."

She smiled. "See, this is a whole new side of me you get to see now. Domestic Clarke. She's a work in progress, but you know."

He took a bite, nodding his head in approval right away. "It's good," he told her. "You did a good job."

"Did I really?"

"Yeah, here, have some." He tried to feed her a bite, but a dollop of alfredo sauce dropped right off his fork and onto her thigh.

"Bellamy!" she squealed.

"Oh, sorry, let me get that." He set the plate aside and bent down, covering the sauce spill with his mouth, licking it up, savoring the taste of her skin more than anything else. The fact that it was _white_ sauce sort of helped the eroticism of the whole thing, because it made him think of what her skin looked like when he came on her.

Her thigh muscles literally fluttered beneath his mouth. "Does it taste as good as me?" she asked.

"No," he said, lifting his head. "Nothing tastes that good." Capturing her mouth with his, he leaned into her, gently pushing her down onto the bed, settling on top of her. For the moment, he forgot about the food, even though he'd get back to it soon.

"I feel like it's gonna be really hard for us to keep our hands off each other at work," she said, stroking his sides.

"I know." He touched her cheek. "But we have to."

She pouted, but seconds later, her eyes lit up with inspiration. "Maybe we could have, like, a secret symbol or something," she proposed. "One that's code for sex."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"I don't know, like . . ." She made a circle with one hand, then poked the index finger of her other hand into it a few times.

"That's a very obvious symbol," he informed her. Hell, wasn't that like a _universal_ symbol?

"Fine, then you think of something better."

"Hmm." His mind raced with possibilities. "Maybe we could have a code _word_."

"Oh, yeah!" she exclaimed. "Like . . . pineapple."

"Pineapple?" Fucking random.

"Yes. So if you hear me say that, it means 'I want you really bad and we have to find a way to do naughty things _pronto_.'"

It wasn't a word he ever dropped into casual conversation, so it would work, he supposed. "Pineapple."

"Yep."

"Pineapple." He lowered his face to her neck, murmuring against her skin in between kisses, "Pineapple. Pineapple. Pineapple right now."

She laughed happily, and her legs came up to coil around his waist.

...

Clarke only stopped by the club to rehearse that night. She'd been . . . occupied that afternoon. Occupied with Bellamy, to be honest. But she had a new routine she needed to get ready, a routine that involved some of the new tricks Harper had taught her. She really wasn't looking to fall off the pole and break her neck while she was up there dancing, so she needed to practice.

The practice room wasn't empty, however. Vivian was sitting back there on the couch, legs crisscrossed, head down. She looked like a little girl without all the sexy clothes and makeup on.

"Hey, Viv," Clarke greeted. "How's it going?"

Vivian shrugged. "Alright."

"That's it? Just alright?" Vivian was usually pretty bubbly and outgoing, not sullen like this.

Slowly, she lifted her head and met Clarke's eyes. "Can I talk to you about something?" she asked quietly.

"Sure." Clarke sat down next to her, unaccustomed to being in this role. Since she was young herself, usually it felt like she was the one needing to talk to or get advice from someone older and wiser, like Harper. "What's up?"

Vivian hesitated a moment before responding. "Well, you know that woman who's been coming in and hanging out with the Polis guys?"

"Ugh," Clarke groaned. This already didn't sound good. "Charmaine, yeah."

"She talked to me."

Clarke had a feeling she knew where this was going, but she asked anyway. "About . . .?"

Vivian squirmed around a bit. "The same thing she talked to you about."

Clarke sighed, having expected as much. "It's okay," she said. "Don't let it upset you."

"It doesn't upset me," Vivian informed her. "Actually, I was . . . I was thinking about doing it."

Clarke's eyes widened in alarm. "What?" she shrieked. "Vivian . . . you do realize she wants you in an _adult_ film, right? She wants you to do porn."

"Yeah, I know."

She sounded so casual. _How_ could she be so casual about this? "And you're just gonna do it?"

Vivian shrugged sheepishly. "Maybe," she said. "I mean, I never thought I would, but . . . it's hard for me, Clarke. The money I make is barely enough to get by. My mom's got all these medical bills, and my little sister wants to go to college . . . so maybe if I do some movies on the side, I could help them out."

"Yeah, and completely degrade yourself in the process." Money was important, but it wasn't everything. "Come on, Vivian, you're better than this."

Vivian grunted. "Easy for you to say."

Clarke frowned. What did that mean?

"You've got, like, two boyfriends," Vivian went on, "and at least one of them would do, like, _anything_ for you. You're not alone out here. I am. I gotta do what I gotta do to get by."

God, her heart went out to this girl. She understood how horrible it was to feel like you didn't have a choice, to feel like you _had_ to do something even though it wasn't what you wanted to do. But Vivian _did_ have a choice here, and she wanted to make sure she remembered that. "You don't have to do _this,_ " she said.

But Vivian didn't seem convinced. She shook her head doubtfully and mumbled, "I don't know . . ." And then she got up and headed back into the dressing room. She was dancing tonight.

 _Dammit,_ Clarke thought, feeling like she hadn't gotten through, but like she needed to.

...

It was shaping up to be another slow night for Bellamy behind the bar. Anya's plan to phase out some of the Polis guys seemed to be working. A few nights in a row without seeing either Clarke or Harper seemed to have dulled their interest, and they were leaving, looking for entertainment elsewhere. A few of them stayed, though, along with the regulars, to watch Vivian's show. She was actually getting pretty good. She could definitely dance. She didn't have that same magnetism Clarke had when she was up there, though. Nobody was _clamoring_ to see her.

Bellamy knew Clarke had stopped by to rehearse, but he had no idea she'd stayed until he saw her come out of the backroom. She motioned emphatically for him to come over, so he left Niylah at the bar by herself and slipped away.

"Pineapple?" he asked curiously.

"No."

 _Dammit._

"Will you do me a favor and talk to Vivian after this?" she pleaded. "She's thinking of taking Charmaine Diyoza up on her offer."

 _Oh, no._ He looked up at the stage, where Vivian was parading around with only a pink feather boa over her shoulders now. She looked like she was trying so hard to be a Vegas showgirl. If Charmaine got her hooks in her, she'd convince her to try hard to be a naughty nurse or a horny schoolgirl, too. Whatever the role called for. And Vivian would be easier for her to lure in than Clarke was.

He wasn't exactly looking to play the dashing hero part for _every_ girl in that club, but hell, Vivian was Clarke's friend, and if Clarke asked him to help, that was what he'd try to do. So later that evening, after Clarke had left and Vivian was done performing and about to be on her way, too, he called her over to the bar.

"Did you like my dance?" she asked him eagerly.

"Yeah, it was fine." He poured her a drink—non-alcoholic since she was underage, too—and cut straight to the chase. "Hey, what's this I hear about you doing porn?"

"Clarke told you?"

He nodded.

"It was just an idea."

"Well, screw that idea. Porn stars don't get paid shit when it's all said and done," he informed her. "The Internet's made it a dying industry. If you wanna make more money, go get another job. Maybe the kind where you don't have to take your clothes off."

She made a face. "What, like waitressing?"

"Sure. Why not?" He wasn't about to recommend Dropship, since he'd heard so many horror stories from Emori, but there were plenty of other restaurants in New York City. Plenty of other job opportunities.

"I'll think about it," she said. "Thanks, Bellamy." She smiled at him and slid down off the stool, but unfortunately, on her way out, Charmaine intercepted her. Bellamy got back to work, glancing up occasionally to check on how their conversation seemed to be going. Charmaine was doing a lot of the talking, but she seemed to be growing increasingly agitated. Hopefully that meant Vivian was turning down her offer.

Their conversation ended shortly after it began, and Vivian left. Charmaine sidled over to the bar and sat down on the same exact stool. She glared at Bellamy and said, "So you poisoned Little Miss Ditz's mind against me, too, huh?"

"I gave her some advice."

Charmaine narrowed her eyes at him, nearly laughing as she noted, "You like being the white knight, don't you?"

He didn't hate it. But he wasn't trying to be the best guy in the universe, either. If his girlfriend hadn't asked him to talk to Vivian, he wouldn't have done it.

"Can't wait to see Clarke take the stage again," Charmaine said, obviously trying to get under his skin just by bringing her up. "I'm sure it'll be quite the show."

 _Screw this,_ he thought, happy when someone came and sat down at the end of the bar so he could get away from her and go serve them.

Charmaine's hand shot out, grabbing his before he could walk away. "How long have you two been fucking, by the way?" she asked bluntly. "Weeks, months?"

He didn't say anything. Because what they had wasn't just about _fucking._ That was something they'd only been doing for a few weeks now. But he'd been in love with her longer.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I don't see the two of you making it last."

"Oh, you don't, huh?" Like he gave a rat's ass about her opinion.

"No offense," she said. "It's just . . . young girl, big city . . . the tragic narrative writes itself."

He tried not to react to that, but . . . it was hard not to. Ontari's narrative was a tragic one. Vivian's had the potential to be. But Clarke . . . he wasn't gonna let her life turn out that way.

"And you can try all you want to protect her from the 'evil' people out there like me," she said, almost as if she were reading his mind, "but in the end, you won't be able to. It's New York City. Nobody can protect anyone here."

He shifted his weight, wishing her warning didn't affect him. But it did. He worried about Clarke, worried about her all the time. But he just kept telling himself that someday, she'd be done with this place. Done with this job, done with these people. And when that day came, he'd feel _so_ relieved.

...

The next day was a gloomy one, but that didn't bother Bellamy. Perfect day to stay inside with Clarke. She wasn't set to make her return to the stage until tomorrow, either, and he'd gotten Murphy to agree to work in his place tonight. So he had a whole morning, afternoon, and evening to spend with his girl. Nothing they _had_ to do, but plenty of things they _wanted_ to do.

"Mmm, it's nice to be able to do this," she said as they stood out on her balcony, his arms around her waist as he held her from behind. "You know, without having to worry about getting caught."

"Yeah," he whispered in her ear, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. God, Clarke smelled so good. It took everything in his power not to just bend her over and do her right there.

Of course, their neighborhood could always be counted upon to ruin the moment. In the distance, he heard shots. Literal gunshots. It didn't even startle him at this point; he'd heard them too many times before.

"Let's go inside," he suggested, and she nodded in agreement.

They went back into the bedroom and shut the door. He wasn't sure if she'd want to cuddle for a while or do something more, but when she pushed him down onto the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling him . . . well, that was when he _became_ sure.

"You know, sometimes I like to pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist," she said, gazing down at him.

"Oh, yeah?" He grabbed hold of her hips, loving the way she looked sitting on top of him like this.

"Yeah. Like all the noise and other people out there . . . that's just gone," she said, waving her hands flippantly. "And there's only you and me."

 _You and me,_ he thought, grinning. Yeah, he liked the sound of that.

She bent forward, her hair curtaining her face as she kissed him. Whether she was aware of it or not, her groin started to circle and rub against his, creating a friction he couldn't ignore. If she wanted him, she could have him. He was fully content to lie here and let her do her thing.

"Take your shirt off," she murmured against his lips before sitting back to allow him to do so.

 _Your wish is my command, Princess,_ he thought, sitting up a bit to peel off his t-shirt and drop it onto the floor.

"Mmm," she moaned, smoothing her hands all over his chest. Her hips continued to roll against his, leaving him with a definite hard-on happening inside his jeans. It became _painful_ when she crossed her arms, grabbed her own shirt, and pulled it over her head, dropping it onto the floor along with his. She had on a black bra, but it was doing little to cover her big, beautiful tits. Her cleavage drove him insane with need, and his hips instinctively jutted up into hers at the sight.

"You like?" she asked, putting her hands on his pecs as she continued to squirm on top of him.

"Yeah." He more than liked. He loved. He loved everything about this girl. Her mind, her heart, her body . . . he was in it for everything with her. But right now, her body was definitely his focus.

She bent down to kiss him again, and he could feel the heavy weight of her breasts against his chest. Only a thin lacy fabric separated the skin-on-skin contact. He tried to snake his hands up around her back to unclasp her bra, but she sat back up before he could do so.

"Just wait," she said, swinging one leg off of him so that she was perched on the side of the bed. She took her jeans off, and he used that opportunity to do the same. He slid his underwear off, too, figuring it would just be in the way. But she kept hers on as she climbed back on top of him.

It wasn't often that he did this with girls, let them take charge. Not that he had some need to be the dominant one in bed or anything. No, if anything, he liked it when girls took charge. But most of the girls he'd slept with in his life hadn't been daring enough to do that. Clarke was different. She liked getting on top of him and giving him a little show. Sex with her was really . . . balanced. There were times when she'd surrender herself to him completely and times, like right now, where he was well aware that he was completely at her mercy.

"You're so hard," she noted, rubbing her panty-covered pussy against his cock. She was really wet already, soaking through the thin material of her thong. Wanting her even wetter, he reached behind and grabbed her ass, squeezing her cheeks, pushing her down even harder against his crotch. She gasped, continuing to roll her hips against him, harder now.

 _Shit,_ he thought, worried she'd get him to cum just from doing this alone. This was great and all, but he wanted to draw it out so he could get inside her.

Finally, the torture of not being able to see her breasts came to an end when she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. Her breasts spilled free, and he greedily reached up to grab them. God, he was obsessed with these things. They were so soft, and they felt so good in his hands. Her nipples pebbled immediately beneath his touch, and he just had to taste them. So he sat up, momentarily taking some of the control away from her so he could suck on her tits.

"Oh god," she moaned, tangling one hand in his hair. She arched her chest against his mouth, letting him just have at it. He kissed and licked and sucked at everything he could get. Of course he concentrated his attention on her pert nipples, but he lavished attention on her cleavage, too, sort of . . . motor boating her. She seemed to like it.

"Yeah," she gasped, pressing his head in so close to her chest, he practically felt like he was being smothered. What a fucking awesome way to die.

He alternated between one breast and the other, fully content to just keep that up until she gave his shoulders a gentle shove, easing him back down onto the mattress. She crawled upward just slightly, her damp panties dragging against his abdomen, and her breasts dangled over his face. He lifted his head to give her a few more licks and kisses, even a harmless nip here and there. But she didn't stay in that position for long. Once again, she swung one of her legs off of him, this time to remove her thong. Once it was gone and she was as naked as he was, his cock literally leapt with excitement. It was straining hard, pressed up flat against his stomach now, needing some attention.

And Clarke . . . damn, it was like Clarke _always_ knew what he needed. Because instead of straddling him again, she reversed positions entirely and brought her legs up to the head of the bed, situating one on either side of his head. _Fuck yeah,_ he thought as she lowered her pussy down against his face. He got to work licking at her and lapping at her arousal while she did the same down at the other end. That feeling of being engulfed by her warm, soft mouth just _never_ got old. She was so damn good at blowing him.

He and Clarke hadn't done a whole lot of sixty-nine action so far, but he was definitely a fan of it. It was just so . . . mutual. He loved getting to pleasure her at the same time she was pleasuring him, loved tasting her while she was tasting him.

He slid his tongue up and down her folds while she licked his cock from base to tip. Spreading her ass cheeks apart, he pointed his tongue, trying to press it up into her, and he had to resist the urge to play around with that _other_ hole that was so easily within his reach. She probably wasn't ready for any backdoor action. Yet.

Part of him was thinking they might get each other off this way, until she climbed off of him, anyway. He couldn't deny being a little bit disappointed that she hadn't cum on his mouth, but then again, maybe she just wanted the same thing he did: to cum when they were _together._ All the way.

"Condom," she told him.

Luckily, they were easily within reach. They had a whole box—halfway gone now—on the nightstand, so he reached over and grabbed one, tearing open the package quickly. He rolled it onto his dick, making sure it was snug around the base, and then she got back onto him, straddling him in a cowgirl position again, positioning her pussy right above his cock. He held it steady for her, and without even using her hands, she sank down on top of it, slowly, sensually.

"Oh . . ." he groaned, closing his eyes for a second. He was never going to get over this feeling, that moment of joining with Clarke like this. It was so different from sex with other girls. Sex with other girls felt good, but sex with Clarke . . . it felt like _everything._

"Fuck yeah," he whispered, laying his hands down at his sides. As tempting as it was to grab hold of her hips and just pound up into her, he wanted her to set the pace, find the rhythm she wanted, the kind that would get her there.

She moved at a slower pace, which he didn't hate. Because it allowed him to really _savor_ how her pussy felt as it clamped down around him. It slid up and down his cock, coating him with her juices. She was so wet that the movement was nothing but natural and easy for her, and she rode him like a pro. For the most part, she kept her hands on his chest and shoulders, staying far enough upward that he had a great view of her boobs as they wobbled, and of the actual penetration itself. But sometimes she'd lean forward further, pressing her chest to his, and she'd be close enough that they could kiss. He loved that, too, being able to just kiss her while they were going at it. Sometimes his tongue would slide into her mouth, or hers into his, and it made him think about how he was sliding into her down below, too.

She kept varying their position, sitting all the way up then so that she was bouncing on him more than just rolling her hips against him. Her tits really started to bounce then, a true sight to behold, but he resisted the urge to reach up and squeeze them. Instead, he just lay there and watched her work. God, it was amazing. She looked so incredible raking her hand through her hair, and reaching down to rub her clit just a little bit. She was _going_ to get off, no doubt about that. Just so long as he could hold out.

When she held out her hands, he sensed even without hearing a word that she was seeking his. So he grabbed hold of them, and that made it easier for her to keep her balance and really push down hard atop him. She was taking the majority of his cock, which wasn't exactly an easy feat for most girls. Had he been the one on top, he may have tried to bottom out in her, just to see if it was something she was into. But what she was doing was so damn good, he didn't want to interrupt it.

"Oh, Bellamy . . ." she moaned.

God, was there anything sexier than her saying his name all breathless like that?

She was working up a sweat, and he could tell she was getting tired when her pace started to slow down. He gave her a questioning look, and she just nodded. So he let go of her hands, wrapped his arms around her waist, and held her steady while he slammed his hips up into her. His pace was a lot faster. In fact, he sort of felt like his hips were a jackhammer. She gasped sharply and squeezed her eyes shut while he fucked up into her like that. His skin slapped against hers, and her boobs bounced all over the place. He could only keep that up for so long, though, before he tired out, too, and it was back to _her_ pace. She slumped forward against him again, her arms on either side of his head, her breath mingling with his as their lower bodies continued to collide. When she pushed her hips down, he pushed his up. He was _deep_ in there, right where he belonged.

"You feel so good inside me," she told him, and _damn,_ that nearly caused him to explode. He loved the way Clarke talked to him when they were in bed. She didn't overdo it the way some girls did, but the things she _did_ say were so fucking hot.

He didn't have to ask her if she was close. He could tell she was when her movements became more frantic, less rhythmic. She ground down on him hard, rubbing her clit against his groin, and he could even feel her stomach muscles shuddering as her orgasm began to tear through her. Her pussy clenched around him spastically as a loud moan soared out of her mouth. It lasted for a good twenty seconds, and it was enough to trigger his own orgasm. He came towards the end of hers, with a few more good thrusts up into her hot, hot heat. His hips jerked up into her on their own accord, and he held onto her tightly as he rode it out. Once it was done, all he could think was, _Wow._ Not something profound or poetic. Just . . . _wow._

She lay in a boneless heap on top of him, making no move to slide off his cock just yet. And that was fine by him. He liked staying inside her for a couple minutes after they were done. It was amazing knowing that they were both feeling so utterly satisfied in that moment, so happy. It was so easy to imagine, just as she had, that the rest of the world had faded away. And it was only the two of them who existed.


	47. Chapter 47

_Chapter 47_

Bellamy was worried for Clarke's first night back at Grounders, but it ended up going better than he'd anticipated. She drew some crowds, of course. Of _course_. That McCreary guy and Charmaine were still there, watching her intently, but thankfully, a lot of the guys who liked to drink too much and get _really_ out of control seemed to have moved on to different clubs. Anya's plan to phase them out had worked. So while there were still some lowlifes who thought it was okay to shout derogatory things to her while she was up on stage, it was calmer than it had been in the days leading up to her break. Nobody tried rushing the stage, and if they did, there was an extra bouncer there to protect her. Bellamy also noticed that the music got louder as she performed, probably to drown out the things people were yelling at her. Thank God, because if he had to hear one more guy call her a bitch or a slut, he was gonna blow the fuck up.

It was nice not having to squeeze in time with her. Instead, when the night was over, he was able to head home with her. Her apartment, since it was bigger, was where they were spending most of their time. He brought some clothes over, along with other stuff like his razor and his toothbrush and his glasses. And food. And more condoms. It felt pretty natural to just settle in with her.

He liked getting to see a different side of Clarke, a side those other guys at the club didn't even know existed. She wasn't always in Girl Next Door mode, all dressed up in costumes and makeup. Sometimes, she was _just_ Clarke, and Clarke was sexy no matter what. She liked to veg out in oversized clothes, particularly _his_ clothes, which he wasn't complaining about. She looked a hell of a lot better in his t-shirts than he did, and she'd taken to wearing his boxers as shorts. She looked just as good bumming around in clothes like that as she did up on stage.

It made him feel good that she wasn't overly concerned about her appearance with him. She'd wake up in the morning with messy bedhead, much as he did, and she'd just smile at him and kiss him before she even bothered to attempt to fix it. She didn't care if he saw her without makeup, either. It was really refreshing to be with a girl who was so comfortable in her own skin, because girls like Bree . . . they were so high maintenance.

In their first week together in Finn's absence, they didn't _just_ spend their time having sex. Sure, that was a big priority, but they did other stuff, too. Like cooking. Clarke fully owned up to not being the best in the kitchen but wanting to learn, and he wasn't exactly a master chef himself. But they found some recipes online, bought all the ingredients, and tried some things out. And only one of their attempts set off the fire alarm.

She brought her guitar out into the living room one night and just played song after song for him while he lay on the couch and listened. God, she was such a good singer. She was good at a lot of things, dancing among them, which was why he didn't even object when she told him she wanted to teach him some cheerleading moves. He tried to learn them, unsuccessfully, but he tried nonetheless. She ended up having to declare him unteachable.

Of course, they were young and horny, so inevitably, a lot of their downtime was spent exploring each other's bodies. It was in that first week staying with her that he realized how much Clarke loved giving him head. She didn't just like it; she _loved_ it. And some girls didn't. Some girls thought of it as an obligation or a chore, but Clarke found ways to surprise him with it when he wasn't expecting it. Like the night he'd settled in to watch ESPN's NFL draft prediction special. She curled up next to him, as if she were going to watch, too, but halfway through it, she was down on her knees, in between his legs, sucking him off while he tried—and failed—to keep his attention on the TV. The next morning, she surprised him again, waking him up by doing the same thing. It was a hell of a sight to see first thing in the morning, her head bobbing up and down beneath the sheets.

Bellamy was never one to just _receive_ all sorts of pleasure without giving it back in return, though. Getting Clarke off was his favorite thing to do in the entire world, so he found his moments to return the favor. He got into the bathtub with her late one night after they both got back from work, and while she leaned back against him, he snuck his hand between her legs and touched her _just right_. He wasn't really much of a bath guy, but she seemed to love them, and if every bath was like this one . . . well, then there would be more baths in his future.

Another night, she stood at the counter, bent over, checking out some of her friends' pictures on Instagram. He'd been attempting to make something to eat, but he quickly abandoned all plans to do that, went up behind her, and tugged her shorts—his boxers—down. Then he bent down and proceeded to eat her out from behind, not concerned with being polite. He _devoured_ her like an animal, but she didn't object.

At night, they slept pretty well next to each other. Even though she liked to alternate between kicking off the covers and covering up with too many, he could pretty much put up with it, especially since he knew he was a light snorer and she was having to put up with that, too. She liked to curl up with him at night, and sometimes his arm fell asleep if her head was on it. But hell, he didn't care.

Once Clarke was out, she was a pretty heavy sleeper, more so than him. So when his phone rang in the early a.m. hours of the start of their second week doing this, she didn't even stir. He reached over onto the nightstand, though, and glanced at the screen to see who was calling. He had to squint because the bright screen was so harsh on his eyes, but he could make out a name. Someone who hadn't had reason to call him for a while.

 _Shumway?_

He untangled himself from Clarke and got out of bed, confused. Why the hell would his former play director be calling him?

"Yeah?" he answered, leaving the door open just a crack as he slipped out into the hallway.

"Bellamy, it's Shumway."

"Yeah, what do you want?" He rubbed his forehead, eager to get back to sleep. Too damn early.

"Sorry to call you at this hour," Shumway apologized. "It's just . . . I've got good news, and it can't wait."

Despite how tired he still was, Bellamy's interest was sparked. "What good news?" he asked.

"I'm doing a film," Shumway revealed. "It's an indie film, but the script's solid. We're casting a male lead, and . . . well, I think you'd be perfect for the part."

 _A male lead,_ his mind registered. _Casting._ "You want me to be in your movie?" he said, surprised. He'd always assumed that his guy had never really liked him very much, even if he had been impressed by his acting.

"You're the only one I can picture in this film," Shumway raved. "It's exactly your kind of part. Dramatic hero, saves the day, gets the girl. But he's complex, too, not some flawless character. I think you're gonna love it."

Based on the description alone . . . it _did_ seem like the kind of part he'd be interested in. But he wouldn't know for sure until he read the script. "Wow," he said, taken aback by the suddenness of this offer. "This is . . . crazy." He'd always hoped that one of his industry connections would pay off, but they never had. Until now, apparently.

"It's gonna be great," Shumway promised. "Tell me I've got you hooked. Tell me you're on board."

He was definitely intrigued, but he had to know more before he committed. "You said it's an indie movie?"

"Yeah."

"And you're directing it?"

"That I am."

He didn't exactly _love_ the thought of working for this director again, but . . . well, maybe he'd be different on a film set than he'd been in the theater.

"Now tell me you've got your passport," Shumway rambled on, "because you and I . . . we can make this happen."

"My passport?" Bellamy echoed, confused. "Where's it shooting?"

"Over in Europe," Shumway replied.

"Europe?" His heart sank. No. No, he couldn't do Europe. "How long would we be shooting?" he questioned. He'd heard of some indie films that were shot _incredibly_ quickly, like in a matter of days.

"Probably about two or three months."

He grimaced, shaking his head. No, he couldn't do two or three months. That was too long. "Sorry," he said. "That won't work for me."

"What?" Shumway shrieked. "Bellamy, I'm telling you, you've _got_ the part. You won't even have to audition."

"I know, but . . ." He peeked back into the bedroom at Clarke, with her beautiful blonde hair sprawled out on the pillowcase. She looked cold without him lying next to her. "I can't do it," he said, unwilling to leave her behind for even two or three weeks, let alone _months_. Maybe that worked for Finn, but not for him. She needed him, and . . . more so than that, he just didn't wanna be without her.

Shumway wasn't about to stop trying to persuade him, though. He kept on with, "Bellamy, this could be the big break you've been waiting for, the thing that puts you on the map," and "Do you really wanna be a bartender your whole life?"

Bellamy heard him out, but really . . . he wasn't _actually_ listening. Because he'd already made up his mind. If the choice was Clarke or some part in a movie, there was no decision to be made. He'd choose his girl any day. "Thanks for the offer," he said, "but I'm gonna pass." And before Shumway could ramble on anymore, he ended the call, then headed back into the bedroom to lie down with Clarke again.

...

Clarke set her fork down and rolled her eyes when she saw that Finn was calling her. "Sorry," she said to Harper, who was in the middle of telling her how hard her finals were going to be. She picked up her phone, feeling like she had to, and faked enthusiasm to the best of her ability. "Hey, Finn."

"Hey, Princess."

She cringed inwardly. That nickname . . . she used to not mind when he said it, but now, it was kind of something she wanted reserved for Bellamy.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm good." She resumed her meal, deliberately not going into any detail about just how good she was. "You?"

"Oh, I'm great," he raved. "It's great here. We're having such a good time."

It sure sounded like that. She could hear lots of voices in the background, like he was around a lot of people and they were all talking and laughing.

"Sorry I haven't called for a couple days," he apologized. "I've been busy."

"It's okay," she assured him. "I've been busy, too."

Across the table, her friend gave her a knowing look.

"Yeah? What're you doing right now?" he asked.

"I'm out with Harper right now," she answered. "We're having lunch." Bellamy had headed out for a couple commercial auditions today, otherwise he probably would have tagged along.

Finn yawned and said, "Man, I'm just waking up."

She knew he was an hour behind New York time right now, but _just_ waking up? That could only mean one thing. "Late night?" she assumed.

"Yeah. It's definitely not all work here. Cage is making sure we find time to party, too."

"Oh, that Cage. He sure has his priorities straight," she mumbled sarcastically.

"Yeah," Finn agreed, and she couldn't tell whether he was serious or not. "Hey, look, I gotta go. But I'll talk to you later, alright?"

"Okay, bye." She ended the call quickly and put her phone back down on the table.

"Wow, that was such a romantic conversation," Harper teased as she twisted her noodles around her fork.

"He was just checking in." What were they supposed to do, whisper sweet nothings over the phone?

"Yeah, but not even an 'I love you,'" Harper pointed out. "Do you even love him anymore?"

Clarke set her fork back down, feeling decidedly un-hungry when she contemplated that. "I don't . . . I don't know, not really," she stuttered. "I definitely know I'm not _in love_ with him anymore."

"That's what I thought." Harper shook her head and sighed. "You have to break up with him then."

"I will. I'm going to," she promised, even though she still dreaded the thought of it. "When he comes back."

Harper gave her an exasperated look.

"What? That's not the kind of thing you do over the phone."

"Please," Harper scoffed. "Monty and I have sex over the phone."

"I wanna do it face to face." That'd be harder, in a lot of ways, but they'd been together for years now. She owed it to him to tell him in person, not over the phone.

"Are you gonna drop the bomb about Bellamy?" Harper questioned.

She hadn't really given that much thought, mostly because it made her nervous to do so. "I don't know. We'll see," she mumbled.

"I think you're gonna have to," Harper said. "I mean, you live next to the guy. It's not gonna be that hard for him to figure it out."

All of these questions were starting to feel overwhelming. Clarke knew she was going to have to end things with Finn as soon as he got back, and she knew it wasn't going to be pleasant. And sure, there were some things she had to figure out about how she was going to do it and what she was going to tell him. But dwelling on all of that right now . . . it was like rain on her parade. "You know what? I don't even wanna think about any of that stuff right now," she decided. "I've got two more weeks of bliss with Bellamy before Finn comes back. I'm just gonna enjoy it."

When she got home from lunch, Bellamy was already back, and he didn't seem to think his auditions had gone very well. So rather than mope about that or worry about what was to come between her and Finn, Clarke suggested they get each other's minds on other things. So they went into the bedroom and made out for a while. Just . . . lazily. And it was _so nice._ Bellamy was such a great kisser.

He lay on top of her, kissing her slowly and deliberately, exploring her mouth with his tongue, when she had an idea. Pushing on his shoulders, she rolled them over so that she was lying on top of him.

"You like bein' on top, huh?" he said.

"I like it all." She kissed him again, then said, "I've got an idea," as she slithered down his body. He only had sweatpants on, so it was really easy to get those off. And he wasn't wearing anything underneath, so . . . perfect.

"What's your idea?" he asked curiously.

"You'll see." She grabbed hold of his cock and pumped it a few times, feeling it get hard in her hand. It didn't take long. The making out had been some nice, drawn-out foreplay. She wasn't just going to give him a hand-job, though. No, she had something else in mind.

Sitting up, she removed her shirt, unhooked her bra, and watched as Bellamy's eyes widened. Maybe he had some idea what she was going to do, but he didn't seem to let himself believe it until she positioned her breasts near his cock, rubbing them against it.

"Uh . . ." he groaned, and the whole thing hardened a little more. "Clarke . . ."

 _He's gonna love this,_ she thought, pressing against the sides of her breasts to move them both inward. She squeezed them around his cock, creating a little pathway for it to slide through, and started moving them up and down.

"Shit," he swore, watching in amazement.

"Do you like that?"

"Yeah."

She liked it, too, even though it wasn't really providing _her_ a whole lot of sensation. It didn't feel bad by any means, but it had to feel like something _so much more_ to him. "Does it feel good?" she asked.

"Uh-huh." He already sounded a little bit dazed, which delighted her.

She kept titty-fucking him, glad that he was enjoying it. "I like making you feel good," she told him. Maybe some girls would roll their eyes at the thought of doing this, but giving Bellamy pleasure was such a pleasure to _her_ that she just loved it. Unfortunately, it wasn't as easy as it seemed. His cock was pretty big, so she kept having to stop and recollect her breasts, push them back inward to get a nice, tight squeeze again. "I have no idea if I'm doing this right," she admitted as she kept moving them up and down. "I've never done it before."

"It's good," he assured her. "Oh, that looks so fucking hot."

She smiled, taking a moment to take in the sight herself. Um, yeah, the head of Bellamy's rock hard dick emerging from her cleavage? It was definitely arousing. "Can you get off from this?" she asked him.

"Oh, yeah."

That was exactly the answer she'd been hoping for, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep it up. It wasn't the most comfortable position, and she felt like he could do it faster if he just took charge. "Here," she said, lying back, her head at the foot of the bed. "Just do it to me."

He sat up, got on his knees, and got on top of her, mumbling, "This is like a fantasy," as he positioned his cock on her chest. He squeezed her breasts together and started fucking them. His pace was quick, his thrusts pretty jarring. They shook the whole bed.

"Oh, yeah, Bellamy," she grunted. He was like an animal right now, and she loved it.

"Oh, shit," he growled, his voice _so low_ and thick with lust. "Shit."

She recognized that look on his face, the look in his eyes. He was gonna cum. She knew it.

A few thrusts later, and he was practically shouting, " _Fuck,_ " as he came hard. He pulled back a bit and shot his load all over her chest. She closed her eyes as some of it squirted up onto her throat and chin, too _._ Sometimes Bellamy could be . . . messy.

Once she was fully-decorated in his cum and he was winding down from his orgasm, she got to work cleaning herself up. She swirled her fingers over her chest, gathering what she could, and proceeded to lick them off as seductively as she knew how. The sexiness didn't have to end just because the sex had.

"Oh, I love watching you clean up like that," he said as he peered down at her with a look of wonder on his face.

She laughed a little, wiping some of the remnants off her jawline, too, holding up her finger for him to have a taste. But he shook his head and climbed off her, flopping down beside her. "Finn never did that with you, huh?" he said.

She licked off her finger and said, "Nope."

"What the hell's wrong with that guy? Seriously?"

She'd often wondered why Finn had never asked her to do that, and so far, she'd only come to one conclusion. "His cock's too small," she said.

Bellamy grinned. "Is it really?"

"Mmm-hmm. It'd get lost in there."

He laughed, leaning over to give her a kiss. Surely he could taste himself on her lips. "Mmm, can we just stay here all night?" he said wistfully.

"If only." They both had to go to work, though. He had to serve drinks, and she had to put on a show. For a bunch of men who weren't him. For a bunch of men who couldn't even compare.

...

When Clarke tore open her jacket, revealing that she was topless underneath, the crowd cheered. Bellamy had to look away, because it was getting harder and harder to just stand back behind this bar and pretend to be okay with this. He took comfort in the fact that, even though all these other people were watching, _he_ was the one who'd just fucked those tits a few hours ago, who'd just cum all over them. Clarke performed for them, but she had sex with _him._ Because she loved him.

A loud slapping on the bar, followed by an equally loud, "Bellamy!" caught his attention. He glanced down to the end of the bar, and there was Shumway, looking totally out of place in this strip club. He was wearing a black turtleneck. Most of these other guys looked like they'd just tossed on the first thing they could find.

"What're you doing here?" Bellamy asked as he approached him.

"I came to talk to you," Shumway said, "try to convince you to change your mind."

He shook his head. "It's not gonna happen." He'd thought about it, but there was just no feasible way it could work. As far as he knew, Clarke didn't have a passport, and those could take months to get. And Shumway would probably want him to leave New York sooner than later. These indie films were quick to get going once they got the funding. And even if that wasn't an issue . . . how could he ask Clarke to uproot her entire life and move somewhere else? She'd already done that once this year.

"Why not?" Shumway pressed. "Why is it not gonna happen?"

His eyes drifted back up to the stage, where Clarke was climbing up onto the pole now.

Shumway followed his look and muttered, "Oh, Jesus Christ. You and that girl . . . honest to God, Bellamy . . ."

"Hey, that girl and I brought the audience to their feet for your play," Bellamy reminded him. "Don't forget that."

"And don't forget that you're an actor, not some stripper's boyfriend."

"She's not just some stripper," he bit out, wondering if Shumway even remembered her name. "I'm not leaving her here for three months to fend for herself. I'm not doing it."

"She looks like a big girl. I'm sure she can take care of herself."

Maybe she could, but . . . what if she got into trouble and needed his help? Clarke was still just nineteen, and at times, he still sensed that she was naïve about this place.

"What, are you worried she'll hook up with someone else while you're gone?" Shumway said.

"No." He wasn't worried about that at all. "I just don't wanna spend that much time away from her."

The director shook his head, clearly disappointed, and told him, "You're making a mistake."

What did he know, though? This guy knew nothing about him or his relationship with Clarke, so Bellamy wasn't going to let any of this bother him. "Nothing I've ever done for her has been a mistake," he informed Shumway, sure that this wouldn't be one, either.

...

Clarke had just fallen asleep when she heard sirens off in the distance. She stirred, aggravated by the noise, but not exactly unaccustomed to it. Lifting her head, she said, "That sounds close."

"Yeah," Bellamy said. Knowing him, he hadn't fallen asleep yet. It always seemed to take him a little longer.

She turned over onto her other side, snuggling up into him. He took her in his arms, becoming her human pillow once again. He was so comfy. "I feel like I've gotten so used to hearing sirens around here," she said, a bit unnerved by how unaffected she was by it anymore. Crime and violence were part of this city—any city, really—but she'd come to expect it. "Back in Kansas, most of the sirens we heard were tornado sirens."

Stroking her hair gently, he asked, "You ever seen a tornado?"

"Yeah. But it was pretty far off in the distance." Closing her eyes again, she traced nonsense designs on his bare chest as the wail of the police sirens started to fade. "You've never seen one, have you?" she guessed. Going from Louisiana to California to New York, chances were Bellamy knew nothing about what a tornado warning was like.

"Nope," he said. "I've been in a hurricane, though."

The thought of one of those had always freaked her out. "That's intense."

"Yeah," he agreed. "And then, you know, a couple months ago, Hurricane Clarke came into my life. Nothing was really the same after that."

She smiled against his chest, laughing lightly, sleepily. "Bellamy?" she said quietly.

"Yeah?"

She let her hand settle down on top of one of his nice, firm pecs, right over his heart. "I like this," she said. "It feels like we're living together."

"Hmm." He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. "It's nice. What're we gonna do when you break up with Finn, though? Are you gonna come stay with me?"

She sighed. "I don't know." That whole thing was a bigger conversation than she felt like having right now when she was about to fall asleep again. "I don't wanna think that far ahead."

"We have to think that far ahead," he insisted. "He's gonna be home in twelve days."

She didn't wanna think about that, either. She just wanted to stay in her own little world with her boyfriend— _this_ boyfriend. The good one. "Well, I usually pay rent," she said, "so . . . maybe we can stay. And this can be our place." It wasn't a palace by any means. In fact, as far as places to live went, it was still pretty crappy. The plumbing acted up, the neighborhood was sketchy, and as far as she knew, Wilma the mouse still lived there, too. But right now, it was _just_ an apartment. Maybe, if Bellamy lived there with her . . . then maybe it could be more of a home.


	48. Chapter 48

_Chapter 48_

Clarke wasn't exactly sure what was going on at the club on Thursday night, only that she'd gotten called in on her night _off,_ which didn't exactly thrill her. Bellamy had been scheduled to work, though, so at least she could keep him company.

"So what exactly is the deal with tonight then?" she asked Harper as they did some stretches back in the rehearsal room.

"The club's been rented out," Harper explained. "For a birthday party."

"Oh, yeah?" That was definitely . . . different. "Whose birthday?"

Unfortunately, the displeased look on Harper's face was all the response she needed. She knew, even without hearing a word, who'd rented out that club.

Marching out to find Anya, who was overseeing the set-up of the additional removable stripper poles up on the stage, Clarke confronted her about . . . _this_. "Are we seriously all here tonight to put on a show for that McCreary guy?" she huffed, hating the thought of being his . . . ugh, birthday present.

Anya didn't look thrilled about it, either, but still, she confirmed, "Yes. He rented out the club."

"You can do that?'

"If you have enough money. It's not cheap, so we need to make it worth his while."

 _We?_ Clarke thought, a bit miffed. Anya wasn't the one up there on stage taking her clothes off. "So it's just gonna be him and all of his really loud, really obnoxious friends?" she said, already dreading it. It sounded awful.

"Hopefully they won't be so loud and obnoxious tonight," Anya said.

"What're the chances of that?" Even though some of them had left to find greener pastures—or naughtier strippers, as the case may have been—the ones who had stayed were still complete jerks, and Clarke was at the point where she had to block them all out while she was dancing.

"Look, Clarke, he signed an agreement for tonight," Anya said, as though that were supposed to be the ultimate reassurance. "If he or any of his friends violate that agreement . . . party's over."

Would it really be, though? Even though she didn't doubt that Anya _did_ care for her and the other girls, she was still running a business here. Shutting down the party would mean shutting down the club. For an entire night. No customers, no money to be made. It didn't seem likely she'd be willing to do that.

Since there was really nothing she could do about it, Clarke reluctantly resigned herself to an audience of pure Polis loudmouths, led by the birthday boy himself. If he was there, that meant Charmaine would be, too. Clarke couldn't tell if they were business partners, friends, or just fuck buddies, but where one was, the other always seemed to be.

Sulking over to the bar, where Bellamy, Murphy, and Niylah were all getting things stocked up for the big night, she motioned Bellamy off to the side and asked, "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," he muttered, angrily drying off a glass. "I'm kinda pissed about it."

"Anya seems to think it'll stay under control, though." She _really_ hoped whatever 'agreement' McCreary had signed was something he'd take seriously.

"Fat chance," Bellamy grunted, rolling his eyes. He set the glass down, looked at Clarke for a moment, then said, "You know, you could just quit right now."

She could. Technically. She knew she could. But being without a job would be even more stressful than being McCreary's entertainment for the night. "I'll be fine," she said. There was talk about having all the girls mix and mingle with the guests again after the show, but at least Anya was here to oversee things this time. Nobody would dare try body shots or lap dances or anything like that while she was around. "I love you for worrying, though," she said, smiling at him appreciatively. It was really comforting to know that, if things _did_ happen to get out of control, she could just run over to him and feel safe. She just liked knowing that there was someone in that club who she could trust implicitly, with everything.

The group showed up around 9:00, most of them already drunk, stumbling around, speech slurring. Clarke waited while some of the other girls hit the stage first. They started with Vivian, who seemed to be a crowd-pleaser. Clarke noticed that her routines were becoming more and more daring, too. She was pulling an Ontari, touching herself up onstage even though that _wasn't_ part of the job description.

Clarke lost track of all the times she hit the stage. Her first time alone, she completely had to wing her performance, because she didn't have anything prepared. Nobody could tell, though, and they seemed to enjoy it. Then she danced with Harper, which they enjoyed even more, even though they both winged that, too. She danced with Vivian, with Roma, and with just the other blonde girls at one point. By midnight, she was completely and utterly exhausted, and Anya told her she had to go out and do one last dance. Just to 'close the show.' She forced herself to be into it, only for the sake of making more money, and deliberately ignored the flurries of 'bitch' and 'slut' and 'whore' those guys shouted at her. It didn't matter how loudly Anya cranked up that music. Those guys could still be louder.

When all the dancing was done, all she really felt like doing was going home and sleeping the night away. But they were supposed to stay until closing tonight, which meant two more hours. And they had to leave the stage and go spend _time_ with those guys. They were supposed to be cheerful and flirty, but she didn't feel like being cheerful or flirty with any of them. Anya had made it clear, though, that nothing was supposed to go beyond that. No touching. No kissing or letting them kiss you. And as the mixing and mingling began, she and Luna and the bouncers all patrolled the room, watching everything closely.

Harper took off pretty early, even though she wasn't supposed to. What were they going to do at this point, fire her? She said she didn't want to feel like she was cheating on Monty, so she mingled for about five minutes, then bolted. Clarke sort of wanted to follow her lead, but she felt obligated to stay. So she made sure, then, to stay close to Bellamy. She planted herself at the bar while the other girls worked the room, and thankfully, most people left her alone. But not one guy who had to be at least twice her age and desperately needed to trim his beard. He said his name was Randy, and he was a director at Eligius Pictures. He talked with a heavy southern accent, talked Clarke's ear off, actually. She sat there and halfway listened, but mostly, she just nodded her head and said things like, 'That's interesting,' even if she had no clue what he was talking about.

"You sure is a sexy little thing," he said, licking his lip. "Where'd you learn to dance like that, sweet cheeks?"

She almost threw up in her mouth. _Sweet cheeks?_ Gross. "I was a cheerleader," she informed him.

"Honey, I'm from Texas, and I ain't ever seen no cheerleaders doin' what you do."

God, sometimes she missed cheerleading. It had seemed so dramatic back at the time, but now, it just seemed so freaking simple.

"Here, let me buy you a drink," Randy offered, probably thinking he was being generous.

"No, I'm good," she said.

"Come on now."

"I'm nineteen," she said, hoping that might dissuade him.

It didn't. "I insist," he said, motioning Bellamy over. "Hey, buddy, pour a shot for my little lady here," he requested. "One for me, too."

Bellamy exchanged a quick look with her, then much to her surprise, he said, "Sure thing."

 _What?_ she thought. Bellamy never served her alcohol. _Still._

Randy continued jabbering, and Clarke watched out of the corner of her eye as Bellamy poured _him_ a shot of . . . something. But then he switched out the bottle, pouring her a shot of something else. "Here you go," he said, sliding their glasses towards them. Neither shot _looked_ any different. She took just a sip at first, recognizing it right away: club soda. Randy had no idea.

"Ah, that's the stuff," he said, downing his shot in one gulp.

She downed hers, too, playing along. "Mmm, yeah." She smiled at Bellamy subtly, loving that he could be so covert in his ways of looking out for her. She really had _such_ a good boyfriend.

"Pour us another," Randy said, slamming his glass back down on the counter. "Yeah, woohoo!"

"Woohoo," she mimicked, sliding her glass back as well. She glanced up at the clock, longing for it to tick just a little bit faster. It was almost 1:00 in the morning now. Just a little over an hour to go.

Several shots later, Randy was feeling it. "Uh . . ." he groaned, struggling to sit upright without tilting from side to side now. "You drunk yet?"

"No, I'm good," she told him. All the club soda was making her feel like she had to pee, though. "But you look a little . . ."

"No, 's alright," he slurred. "I can hold my . . ." He interrupted himself with a loud belch. ". . . liquor." Just as he said that, however, he slumped right off his bar stool, sinking down onto the floor. He landed in a heap, and Clarke laughed.

"I think I'll call him a cab," Bellamy said, turning around to reach for the phone. He dialed the number by heart.

Just when Clarke thought she was perhaps done dealing with annoyances for the night, she heard Charmaine's voice behind her. "Club soda. Nice trick."

She peeked over her shoulder, barely paying her any attention. But that woman, as always, didn't let that discourage her from sitting down and striking up a conversation. She stepped over Randy, took his stool, and downed his last shot. "So . . ." she said, "word through the grapevine is that you're into dicks _and_ chicks. Is that true?"

Clarke shrugged unabashedly. "So what if it is?"

"Well, I think that's great," the older woman raved, "opens up a lot of possibilities."

 _Possibilities,_ Clarke registered. _For her movies, no doubt._

"Do you know how rare it is to find a _genuinely_ bisexual girl in the adult film industry? Most of the girls just put on a good act."

Since when was _any_ of the acting in the adult film industry good, though? Clarke really wanted to point that out, but Charmaine kept on going before she could get a word in edgewise.

"If you're worried about cheating on your boyfriend, you could just do some girl-on-girl scenes," she suggested. "I'm sure he'd love that."

"Can't you just take no for an answer?" Clarke spat, exasperated.

"Sure. But I don't see any harm in persisting."

There _was_ harm in it, though. The more this woman pestered her about doing adult films, the worse she felt about . . . well, about herself.

"Is she bothering you again?" Bellamy asked once he got off the phone.

"Constantly," Clarke grumbled.

"I can't be bothering you any more than Randy was," Charmaine pointed out. Glancing at Bellamy, she tilted her head to the side and grinned. "You know, you two could be the next big thing out there on the Internet," she said, motioning between the two of them. "Hot bartender, hot stripper . . . it's a match made in porno heaven. Hell, just put your phone on the dresser tonight, film your slam session. We could market that, maybe start up your own website."

"I'm done with this," Clarke decided, standing up.

"Are you leaving?" Bellamy asked her.

"Yeah." She was taking a page out of Harper's book and cutting out early. Screw this so-called party. "Just gotta go get my stuff," she said. "I'll see you at home."

"Drive safe."

She left Bellamy to deal with Charmaine, figuring he could probably shut down her bullshit a lot better than she could, and headed to the back of the club to get her purse. Hopefully it was still securely hidden away in Anya's office. They couldn't really trust any of these lowlife creeps, so they'd all stashed their stuff in there.

When she stepped into the rehearsal room, she was stunned by what she saw. Roma was in there, _with_ McCreary. He was sprawled out on the couch, pants down to his ankles, and she was on her knees, giving him a blow job.

"Oh, sorry," Clarke said, and that caused Roma to slide backward. "Um . . ." She quickly averted her eyes and scampered out of there, trying to un-see what she'd just saw. That was . . . god, what _was_ that?

A few seconds later, Roma came rushing out of the room, looking flushed and flustered. "Don't tell anyone," she practically begged, and then she headed back out to the club, ready to mix and mingle again.

Clarke immediately felt conflicted. Because she felt like she probably _should_ tell Anya. That way, she could shut this party down, make McCreary and Charmaine and all their friends leave. But if she did that, then Roma might get in trouble, too, for taking things too far _again._

Clarke was still standing there, stunned and creeped out by what she'd seen, especially because it gave her flashbacks to Roan, when McCreary came out of the room, pants pulled up now but still undone. He grinned smugly and said, "I pretended she was you."

Clarke made a face of disgust. Because . . . well, because that was disgusting.

"Wanna finish me off?" he invited, grabbing his junk to jiggle it around.

She shoved past him and ran back to Anya's office to get her stuff and go. Roma may have been willing to give this guy a special present for his birthday, but she sure as hell wasn't.

...

By the time Bellamy _finally_ got home that night—the party crew had pretty much trashed the club, leaving him, Murphy, and Niylah a hell of a lot of clean-up—Clarke was already in bed. He crawled in behind her, settling under the covers carefully so as not to disturb her. He could tell she wasn't asleep, though. Her brow was furrowed, and she looked tense.

He kissed her shoulder, then trailed a few more soft kisses down her arm. "Made it through the night," he whispered against the back of her neck.

"Yeah." She sounded so tired, though, and he could see why. She'd done a lot of dancing tonight. And it was like they all just wanted _more_ of her. Like they were never satisfied.

"Hey, Bellamy?" she squeaked out quietly. "Can we go for a drive tomorrow?"

It was such a random request, but he was down for it. "Sure," he answered. "Where do you wanna go?"

"I don't know," she said. "Anywhere. I just wanna get away for a while."

God, so did he. The hustle and bustle of this city, the constant noise and traffic . . . it was exhausting to say the least. Always had been. But there were still open roads they could go explore, fresh air they could breathe. Together.

...

It felt so good to be out of the city. Even if it was just for a little while. Clarke felt like a huge weight was lifted off her shoulders, like all the pressure of daily life was gone, as she and Bellamy drove aimlessly down the highway. Well, _he_ drove. She sat in the passenger seat of her blue Cadillac, letting a feeling of peace and contentedness just wash all over her as the world flew by. It was nice enough weather that they could have the top down, so the wind was whipping through her hair. Bellamy's, too. His dark curls flew all about his face, and he looked so adorable when he glanced over at her every now and then and just smiled.

Not being surrounded by cars and sounds and people . . . it made Clarke feel like she was back home. Back in a simpler time in her life. She wondered if Bellamy felt like that, too, but she didn't feel the need to ask him. They just drove, in relative silence, songs neither of them knew on the radio giving them the perfect soundtrack for a perfect escape from reality. The last time she'd been in the car with him like this, they'd been going to a funeral, Ontari's funeral. But that dark cloud didn't hang over either of them today, and they had no real destination in mind. It sort of just felt like they could drive forever. Even though they couldn't.

But although getting away was great on its own, getting away with _Bellamy_ made the whole day feel amazing. Every once in a while, she'd find herself stealing a glance at him, fixating on his big, strong hands as they gripped the wheel, or freckles on his face, or the stubble of his beard since he hadn't shaved for a few days. As beautiful as he made her out to be, she felt like he was just as beautiful. In a masculine way.

When it got to the point where they hadn't seen any other cars on the road for a couple of minutes, Clarke told him to pull over onto the shoulder of the road. He didn't ask questions, just did it. There they were, just surrounded by nature—actual trees and fields and fresh air in New York—and it _really_ felt like the rest of the world didn't exist. She always liked to pretend it was just the two of them, but right now, it really, truly felt that way.

Bellamy shut off the car, and with no music playing any longer, she swore she could hear her own heart beating. He looked at her questioningly, and she didn't hesitate. Kicking off her sandals, she climbed over the gearshift into his seat, settling onto his lap, grabbing hold of his shoulders as their mouths immediately crushed together in a kiss. She rolled her denim-clad hips against his, reveling in the touch of his hands as they smoothed up and down her thighs. She'd only worn shorts and a t-shirt today, since it was so unusually warm out, but now, suddenly, she felt like there was too much clothing in the way.

Tearing her mouth away, already breathless, she looked down and watched as his skillful fingers got to work unbuttoning and unzipping her shorts. It wasn't quite so easy to get out of them, though, since they were in such a cramped space and she was already sitting on top of him. She wasn't graceful at all and didn't even try to be as she maneuvered all around, legs flying everywhere, whimpering impatiently when she couldn't get them off fast enough. But finally, she did, and she tossed them into the passenger's seat, her panties along with them. The breeze hit her bare backside, making her shiver, but Bellamy's warm hands splayed against it a moment later, heating her up again.

It was easier to take care of his clothing, since all she had to do was get his pants undone and reach in to grab his cock and pull it out. He lifted his hips up off the seat, pulling his jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh, and that was enough for her. She situated herself on top of him, grinding herself against him a few more times, delighting in the fact that he was already hard and ready for her. Without worrying about a condom this time—something she wasn't trying to make a habit out of but couldn't resist every once in a while—she sank down atop his length, hissing at that immediate rush of feeling him inside of her. He was so big, so he made her feel so full. And it just felt _right_ to feel that way.

His fingers dug insistently into her ass, pushing her down as far as she could go. She felt his lower stomach against hers, a sure sign that she'd taken a great deal of him, so that meant it was time to make this ride in the car a _real_ ride. The kind they could only give each other.

She started bouncing up and down at a feverish pace, already so desperate to get off and to feel him do the same. This wasn't the kind of sex that would be drawn out. It would be fast, frenetic, and intimate all at the same time. She held onto him like a life preserver as she moved, loving the way he just pressed his face into her collarbone and neck and breathed hotly against her as she slid up and down his cock. It was almost as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't, so he just kept rasping out these low, throaty grunts and groans while his hands squeezed and lifted her backside, helping her ride him. She couldn't say anything, either, or even form any coherent sounds, so she just moaned and whimpered as she lost herself in the feeling of being joined with him, of becoming this one person instead of being a separate people anymore. They weren't just Bellamy and Clarke right now; they were . . . they were _them_.

Gripping his shoulders, his biceps, clutching at the shirt that covered his chest, all she could think was that she'd never felt so connected to another person before. Never in her life had anyone known her the way Bellamy did. Never in her life had anyone _loved_ her the way that he did. Even now, all fast-paced and frantic and out in public like this . . . it wasn't just sex. No. They were _making love._

 _Oh god,_ she thought as a car drove past, not because she was worried about getting caught doing this out in the open, but because she was already so damn close to getting off on it. She sensed that he was getting close, too, so she rode him hard, squeezing her eyes shut, allowing herself to concentrate on nothing other than the feel of him inside her. His hips began to slam up to meet hers—they had to be shaking the whole car at this point—and that was all it took to send her over the edge. She let out a high-pitched sound, squeezed her eyes shut, and held onto him for dear life as her climax swept over her. It was like ocean waves of pleasure just rippling throughout her entire body. Her arms and hands shook, her stomach muscles fluttered, and her thighs quivered. Her pussy clamped down on his cock spastically, on its own accord, and that seemed to be enough to draw out his own release. Seconds later, he rammed up into her so hard, she swore there was no space left between their bodies. She could feel his cock spasming, twitching, almost as if he'd just been electroshocked. She could feel a warmth as he spent himself inside her.

Afterward, they just stayed together, connected still on _every_ level, and came down from the high together. A big truck noisily rumbled past them, but she barely even noticed it. She was too caught up in the way he was rubbing one hand up underneath the back of her shirt, massaging her spine while his other hand stayed cupped against her backside. She felt practically _boneless_ on top of him, unable to move, even if she'd wanted to.

She _didn't_ want to. In fact, if she could . . . she probably would have stayed there with him forever.

...

Returning to the city felt . . . like a bit of a letdown. But Clarke also didn't feel _quite_ as weighed down as she had been before. There was a giddy lightness in her chest thanks to her morning and afternoon of freedom with Bellamy. It wasn't leaving her yet. Plus, doing him on the side of the road pretty much assured that she couldn't stop smiling.

Since she was slated for another performance that night, she headed into work early while he tossed some laundry in— _so_ domestic they were, and she was just loving the naturalness of it. When she got out of the car, she spotted Niylah, hanging out down the street, chatting up a girl. That girl must not have been enough to hold her interest, because when she saw Clarke, she meandered over and said, "Hey, you. You look like you're feeling refreshed."

"I am," Clarke admitted. A day away with her man had been just what she needed after that gross birthday party for McCreary last night.

"What was it this time, Bellamy's hands or his tongue?" Niylah asked, grinning.

Clarke stopped with her hand on the door handle of the club and gave Niylah a look.

"Ooh, the joy stick," Niylah inferred. "Get it, girl."

Clarke blushed, not exactly confirming or denying her assumption, even though, like most other people, Niylah pretty much just _knew_ what was going on. She headed inside and went straight back to the rehearsal room, wanting to work out a couple of kinks in this new spin she wanted to try. She kicked off her sandals and bent over to start stretching out, but she was immediately distracted from that pursuit when she heard arguing coming from back in Anya's office. The door was halfway open, so she could hear what they were saying pretty clearly. It sounded like . . . well, Anya, of course, and . . . Roma?

"Anya, would you just listen to me?"

Clarke stood up, forgetting about stretching. Yeah, that was definitely Roma. She wasn't sure what they could possibly be arguing about.

"I am listening," Anya responded. "But my mind's made up."

Roma groaned frustratedly, loudly. "This is fucked up," she blasted. "You say you care about us, but if you really cared, you'd let us have the chance to-"

"To what? Whore yourself out? End up like Ontari?" Anya cut back in. "I don't think so."

" _Stop_ using Ontari as the cautionary tale. Not all of us are like her. I'm a grown-ass woman. I know how to take care of myself."

Clarke almost stepped out of the room, because she didn't want to eavesdrop, but . . . at the same time, how could she not? It was an incredibly heated conversation, one that she wouldn't have expected Roma Bragg of all people to be having. Roma kind of just went about her business at the club, didn't question things. But then again . . .

She flashed back to what she'd walked in on last night, an encounter she hadn't even told Bellamy about. Maybe Roma's priorities were . . . changing.

"I know it doesn't seem like it to you, but I _am_ trying to look out for you," Anya insisted. "The rules we have in place here at this club . . . they're meant to protect you girls. I don't want you dealing with harassment or unwanted advances or-"

"We deal with that anyway. Might as well give us the chance to make a little money off of it," Roma argued. "Vivian thinks so, too."

"Then Vivian should be in here talking to me herself."

Clarke frowned. What was this, like a mutiny? Whatever it was, she wasn't a part of it.

"Do you realize what you're suggesting?" Anya huffed. "Getting up on stage and dancing is one thing, but spending one-on-one time with these men . . . do you really think that's gonna go off without a hitch?"

 _One-on-one time?_ Clarke thought, a nervous tingle zipping up her spine. She had no interest in that. Just mixing and mingling last night had been excruciating enough.

"It won't stop at lap dances and private shows. It'll escalate," Anya predicted grimly. "I've seen it happen before at clubs all around this city. I refuse to let _my_ club be a part of that."

Clarke breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Thank God Anya had balls of steel, because . . . she didn't want this club to sink that low, either. She didn't want to be a part of something like that.

Unfortunately, though, Roma wasn't letting up. "It may be your club, but it's my body," she countered. "I should be able to choose what I wanna do with it. If somebody comes in looking for a special little dance, why can't I give that to him?"

 _Because you're better than that,_ Clarke wanted to tell her. _Or at least . . . you should be._

"I'm not talking about sex, Anya. I'm talking about . . ."

"Something sex _ual_ ," Anya filled in.

"This whole club is sexual. Why not just push the envelope a bit? People are getting bored with the same old thing."

"I disagree."

Clarke clung to every word Anya was saying. She needed her to stand her ground. If they changed anything up now . . . it'd be like Roan all over again. She couldn't deal with that.

"Look, you don't understand." Roma sounded as if she were pleading now, close to tears. "I'm a single mother. I _barely_ make enough for me and my son to get by. All of us here . . . we put in so much work to be the best, but we don't get paid like we're the best. Because the guys who come here still want more."

"So you just wanna give them more, just like that?"

"Yes!"

 _No,_ Clarke thought, vehemently opposed to what her friend was suggesting. There were certain things she only wanted to give to Bellamy.

"What do you think your son would say if he could hear this right now?" Anya questioned harshly.

It took Roma a few seconds to respond to that. "He's too young to understand."

"But he won't always be."

Roma laughed angrily. "My son would be glad to have a full meal on the table. For once," she growled. "Not every one of us is like Clarke, you know."

Clarke stiffened.

"She can just dance and make enough and be fine. But the rest of us have to work twice as hard to be half as good. We have to be willing to do things she won't ever have to think about, because we're not so fucking _special_ like her."

Hearing all that, she felt . . . taken aback. Taken aback by the resentment she heard in the other girl's voice, the hostility. She got along with Roma; she like Roma. They'd worked together for months now and never had an issue. But perhaps, underneath the surface, Roma hated her rise to success, her ascent to Number One status. Maybe she wanted that for herself, and maybe she was willing to do _whatever_ she had to do in order to get it.

"God, you don't even care." The door flew open, and out came Roma, crying and infuriated. She had to have seen Clarke standing there in the middle of the rehearsal room, obviously having overheard the whole thing, but she didn't say anything to her or pay her any attention at all. She stormed off without so much as a passing glance.

 _I'm sorry,_ Clarke thought, feeling bad. She hadn't meant to make things harder for Roma there. She hadn't meant to steal the spotlight from anyone. It'd just . . . well, it'd sort of just happened.

Anya came out moments later, but she stayed in the doorway to her office, and she _did_ give Clarke a look. A wordless one, but for some reason, that made Clarke feel more worried than hearing her say something about the whole argument would have. She retreated back to her office then, shut the door, and . . . that was that, Clarke supposed.

But what if it wasn't over? What if this conversation lingered long after Roma was gone? What if Anya started to second-guess herself, her own decisions, the way she was running this club? What if she started to consider some of the very ideas she'd just shut down?

Clarke's stomach churned with worry at the thought.


	49. Chapter 49

_Chapter 49_

Bellamy definitely wasn't going to roam around bragging about his and Clarke's sex life like Finn had done. At least not to strangers. But if one of his friends asked him about it . . . well, he was a guy, so he didn't exactly _mind_ getting to brag a little bit.

Miller was the one to bring it up when they were out to lunch. He deduced that Bellamy and Clarke were banging, then proceeded to ask, "So how lit is the sex?"

"It's pretty lit." Bellamy admitted as he polished off his French fries.

"On a scale of one to ten?" Miller pressed.

He blurted out the first appropriate number that came to mind. "Twenty-seven."

"Nice," Miller said, chuckling. "And judging by the fact that this is the first time we've hung out in weeks, I'd say it's happening pretty frequently."

"Yeah, I can't complain." Clarke was definitely . . . eager when it came to sex. She was wild and passionate and daring. What more could he want in a partner?

"Just enjoy it," Miller advised, leaning back in the booth, clutching his stomach as though he'd eaten too much. "You're crazy about that girl."

"I'm in love with her," he quickly corrected.

His friend's eyebrows rose up. "That's, uh . . . new for you. Does it freak you out at all?"

"No." Now that he was with Clarke, he had no idea why he'd ever wasted so much time just hooking up with random chicks. All those one-night stands . . . what had been the point of any of them? Meaningless sex didn't even compare to what he and Clarke had.

"Good for you, man," Miller said. He sounded genuinely happy for him.

Unfortunately, the lighthearted conversation didn't last any longer, because Pike came into the café and sidled right up to their table. They couldn't cut out of there quick enough to avoid him, so Bellamy just sighed heavily and braced himself to be annoyed.

"Nate," Pike started off. "Good to see you. How's school? You ready to hop back into acting yet?"

Rather than try to answer both those questions, Miller mumbled, "This is my cue to leave," got up, slapped enough money down on the table to cover his food and part of the tip, and said, "See you, Bellamy," as he headed out.

Even though he hadn't been invited to, Pike slid into his seat.

"You know, I was in the middle of hanging out with my friend there," Bellamy told him.

His former agent waved it off as if it were nothing. "You can hang out with him anytime. I saw your car parked out there, had to come check in, see how things have been going for you."

"Great."

"Yeah? You been auditioning?"

"Yep." No need to go into any more detail than that.

Pike wolfed down the remaining fries on Miller's plate and said, "One of your former directors got a hold of me. Shumway or something."

Bellamy rolled his eyes. He'd figured there was a bigger reason for this little check-in.

"He said he's got a part for you in a film. But you turned him down."

"Yep, I did." And he didn't regret it. Hell, he'd barely given it any thought since then.

"I think you should reconsider," Pike suggested. "Sounded like a good opportunity."

"Let me guess: He asked you to change my mind."

"He did," Pike affirmed, nodding. "He said filming starts next week. If you don't sign on now, they're gonna find someone else."

"Well, they're gonna find someone else then," he muttered, "'cause I'm not doing it."

"And why the hell not?"

Bellamy knew he didn't owe this guy an explanation. There was no point in continuing on in this conversation. "You're not my agent anymore. I don't have to explain things to you." He put a ten dollar bill down on the table, along with a couple quarters to add to the tip, and got up to leave.

"Is it a girl?" Pike called after him.

For some reason, some _stupid_ reason, he stopped.

"Oh, Bellamy . . ." Pike got up and came to stand in front of him. "Don't waste an opportunity on someone whose name you won't even remember a few months from now."

"She's different," he insisted.

"Oh, is she?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, so you're in love now," Pike deduced. "That's great. Then be in love with her while you're off shooting a movie."

"I'm not leaving her here," he growled stubbornly.

"Look, I can help you out with that. Let me work with you again. I can negotiate a contract where you get time off during filming to come back and visit her."

Bellamy grunted. "Screw you, Pike." He gave the guy a shove as he headed out of the restaurant.

"Bellamy . . ." Pike followed him, but he didn't follow for long. He kept talking, though, as Bellamy swiftly made his way down the sidewalk to the meter where his car was parked. "Bellamy, you're throwing your whole future away."

He shook his head angrily, tuning him out. Pike didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He didn't even know him anymore. If he did, he'd have known that, when Bellamy thought about the future . . . all he thought of was Clarke.

...

It was getting loud out there. McCreary's birthday party seemed to have lured some of his old friends back to the club. They were starting to outnumber the regulars now. They were, in essence, _becoming_ the regulars.

Anya came backstage while Clarke was sitting at the vanity, putting on her makeup. "Where's Vivian?" she questioned, looking around frantically.

Clarke shrugged. She'd been wondering the same thing.

"What do you bet she quit, too?" Anya huffed, whipping out her phone.

" _Too?_ " Clarke echoed. "Who else quit?"

Anya scrolled feverishly through her contact list, mumbling, "I'll give you one guess."

Well . . . there was only one person coming to mind. "Roma?" Clarke cringed. "Wasn't she supposed to dance tonight?"

"Yep." Anya brought her phone up to her ear, waiting a few seconds while it rang. Apparently no one answered, because she left a voicemail, an impatient one. "Vivian, it's me. Where the hell are you? You're supposed to go on in ten minutes."

Clarke wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, because Vivian, like Roma, was her friend. Sure, maybe she didn't hang out with either of them like she did with Harper, but she'd spent countless hours rehearsing with them, getting ready backstage with them. She didn't want to think that they were just . . . gone. "Maybe she's just stuck in traffic or something," she speculated.

"Yeah, maybe," Anya agreed, but it didn't seem like she was buying that for a second. "Please tell me Harper's here tonight."

Clarke shook her head. Nope. There was no one else to fill in for either Vivian or Roma.

"Great," Anya muttered. "Just great." She left the changing room, looking more stressed out than Clarke had seen her look in a long time. She wished there was something she could do to help her calm down, but she couldn't, so she just kept putting on her makeup, trying to concentrate on what she had to do tonight. She was throwing some fancy tricks in tonight's dance. Not that the audience would know the difference between one spin and another. But still, she knew, and if she hit those tricks, she'd feel proud.

Anya returned a couple minutes later, right after Clarke had gotten dressed, looking as if she were about to pull her hair out. "She's not coming."

"What?" How could that be? Vivian needed the money just as much as Roma did. Why would she just not show up?

"Just got a text," Anya said, holding up her phone. She sighed in defeat and said, "You're all I've got tonight, Clarke. Can you do it, a one-woman show?"

The prospect seemed . . . daunting to say the least. Holding the attention of an audience of rude, horny men by herself? One performance after another? It wasn't like she had much of a choice, though. "Yeah, I—I think so," she sputtered. "I mean, I'll have to improvise, but . . ."

"Thank you," Anya said, giving her shoulder an appreciative squeeze. "I'll make sure I pay you extra." She headed out onto the stage, and when she was gone, Clarke started to freak out a bit. What if she got tired while she was up there? If she overdid it, she'd been known to lose her grip on the pole altogether and just fall flat on her ass. Doing multiple routines was going to be _exhausting._ And what was she going to do about costumes? She only had one picked out.

She didn't have much time to fret, because it wasn't long before she heard her boss's voice over the microphone. "And now, gentlemen, you are in for a _very rare_ treat," Anya said, hyping it up as though this were something they'd planned. "Gracing the stage all night long, for _your_ entertainment . . ."

Clarke winced. For _their_ entertainment.

". . . is our very own Girl Next Door!"

She stood behind the curtain, taking a few breaths to steady herself, and waited until she heard the music start to play before she strutted out onto the stage. It was a song she didn't even know and didn't feel like she'd heard before in her life. So she had no idea how to time her moves to it. There was no way to look as polished as she would have liked, so she went for the wild approach instead. She spun all around that pole, throwing the wildest tricks she could, hitting most of them. There was only one spin that she kind of fell out of, but she caught her balance, and no one seemed to notice.

After a good ten minutes up on that stage, she was already tired, but there was no resting tonight. _One down,_ she thought as she made a quick costume change into some sexy black lingerie that looked like it'd fit just fine. _Two to go._

Anya scurried backstage, in full-on pump up mode. "You did so good," she raved. "You've got this. Keep it up, Clarke."

 _I've got this,_ she thought, over and over again. _I've got this; I_ have _to have this._

When she went back out, it was at least her own music that she'd practiced to. But the routine she'd worked on had to be watered down. The tricks she'd had planned required more energy than what she had left in the tank, so she spent the majority of _her_ routine just dancing sexily, doing all sorts of simple but seductive moves that were sure to turn the crowd on. They liked it. They always did. They especially liked it when she took her top off.

Normally, she would have been done after that. Roma would have closed out the night, and that would have been it. But with no Roma, she had to make another costume change—she barely even tried this time, just tossed on an oversized men's shirt, tousled her hair, smeared her makeup, and figured she'd sell it as a straight-outta-bed look. Nobody seemed tired of her yet when she came back out and improvised her third routine of the night. She got fully naked for that one, because that was what they were all ultimately wanting. The cash rained down on the stage when she tossed that oversized shirt aside, and she tried to focus on that rather than on _them._

When it was done, she'd ended up in quite the exposed pose, sitting down with her knees up, legs spread, head thrown back. And she was _so glad_ to be done. She sat there for a moment, catching her breath, letting their eyes take in the sight of her just a little longer so she could get just a little more money out of them. But when she heard a loud, "Yeah!" from McCreary, she folded her legs in and got up, ready to get off the stage. "You make my dick hard, bitch!" he shouted, and when she saw him, she felt sick. He had his pants unzipped, his hand inside them, and was literally jerking himself off right there.

She looked over at Bellamy, who was leaning on the bar, his head in his hands. He looked . . . disgusted. Not by her, but by what was happening around her.

 _I have to get out of here,_ she decided, forcing a sweet little wave before she grabbed the shirt and pulled it over her head on her way off the stage. This was a one-time thing, this whole one-woman show night. She didn't ever want to do this again. It was too much pressure and stress.

Thankfully, once she was done, the club cleared out pretty fast, so Anya agreed to let everyone go home early, even the bartenders. She said she'd close up, but Clarke had a feeling she just wanted to be left alone. She was dealing with stress of her own, albeit a different kind.

That meant Clarke got to go home with Bellamy, which she was _so_ thankful for after a night like tonight. She could barely put one foot in front of the other, so it was such a relief having him to lean against as they trekked up the stairs to the third floor of their apartment complex, trudged down the hallway, and ultimately slumped in the door. "Mmm," she moaned, barely still awake. "I'm so tired."

"I'll bet," he said, shutting the door. "Why'd you have to do so much tonight anyway?"

She yawned and replied, "Because Roma and Vivian quit."

"What?"

"Yeah." There was no confirmation on Vivian yet, but really, what else could it be? Clarke had seen that girl get up there and dance when she'd had a fever before, so if she was sick, she would have come. "I'm _so_ tired, Bellamy," she groaned, stumbling out of her shoes.

"You gotta get some sleep," he said, tightening his arm around her waist as if to keep her upright.

"No, I feel gross." All that dancing had made her so sweaty, and she felt like she smelled. "I wanna take a bath first."

"Want me to get it ready for you?" he offered.

"Mmm-hmm."

He led her down the hall and into the bathroom. The light in there was kind of bright, so she only halfway had her eyes open as he set her up on the sink and told her to wait there while he filled up the tub. He made it nice for her, bubbles and everything, and then declared, "All ready," and came back over to her to lift her off the sink.

"Mmm," she purred, loving the way he just carried her to the tub, "you're so good to me."

He proceeded to undress her, and it just felt so much _better_ than undressing herself up onstage did. Softer. More intimate. He took her hand then and helped her step into the tub. The water was warm and inviting, so she sank down into it eagerly, loving the way it soothed her achy arms and legs.

Kneeling down next to the tub, he scooped up a bit of water in his hand and drizzled it over her chest. "Does that feel good?"

"Yeah." This bath felt like their drive the other day had: peaceful, serene, comfortable. But as nice as it felt on her own, she had no doubt it'd feel even better with him. "Are you gonna join me?" she asked, smiling at him sleepily.

"Sure." He reached behind his back to grab his shirt and pull it over his head, then stood up, shucked off his jeans and shoes, and then slid his underwear down. Once he was naked, she sat up a bit, making space for him behind her, and he got in, sloshing a bit of water over the sides of the tub as he did so. He settled in behind her, though, maneuvering his legs underneath hers, and she just lay on top of him, using his broad chest and shoulders as a headrest.

"Just for sexy times, not for cuddling," she told him.

"What?"

"I mean . . . just for cuddling, not for sexy times," she corrected. "You know what I mean." Talking was a real struggle right now. Her mind wasn't functioning at its highest capacity.

He laughed lightly and kissed the top of her head, then brought his hands up out of the water to thread through her hair. She felt . . . so taken care of. Not that she needed a man to take care of her, but . . . she had one, and right now, it was really nice.

"Did I do good tonight?" she asked him.

"You always do," he said.

"Mmm." She shut her eyes again, feeling the tug of exhaustion, unable to ignore it any longer. "I'm gonna fall asleep," she warned him. "Don't let me shrivel up in here, okay?"

"I won't," he promised, rubbing her arms and shoulders. He'd probably let her soak there a while, and once the water started to feel cold, he'd move her into the bedroom. It made her feel good knowing she'd probably have his arms around her the rest of the night. It made her feel safe.

...

For a second, Clarke thought she was seeing things when she showed up at Grounders the next day. Because there was no _way_ Luna was up on stage, twirling around that pole. It didn't look like she was just doing it for fun, either; she looked . . . focused.

"Luna?" she said incredulously. "What're you doing?"

Luna landed a spin gracefully and replied, "Practicing. It's been a while since I've been up on stage, but it's not like you forget how."

"Practicing for what?" Clarke asked.

"Well, with Vivian and Roma quitting, we need some new . . . talent," she said as she stepped down off the stage. "I guess that's gonna be me."

"But . . ." Clarke couldn't even wrap her mind around it. Luna wasn't one of the Grounders girls. She was the one who trained them and choreographed for them sometimes, but she wasn't on their level. "But you help run this place," she pointed out, feeling like it wouldn't be possible to do both jobs at the same time.

"And right now, I'm just trying to help out in any way I can," Luna said. "Speaking of . . ." She grabbed a pile of bright, multi-colored flyers off the edge of the stage and handed them to Clarke. "We could use your help, too."

She looked at the flyers, recognizing quickly that they were advertising auditions. They looked like something Anya had hastily designed and printed off last night.

Not wanting to walk around distributing flyers all by herself, Clarke persuaded Harper to help her. They didn't really hand out any. They just sort of roamed the streets, once in a while hanging one onto a light pole or sticking one to the side of a trash can.

"So has Luna ever actually, you know, performed for the crowd?" Clarke asked her friend, still mind-blown about that whole thing.

"No," Harper replied. "Not once in the time I've been there."

But she was doing it now. Clarke had always assumed Luna had been a stripper once herself, what with her knowledge of technique and all that, but this was pretty much confirmation. And it still just seemed weird to her that she would . . . regress back to that after finding a different career.

"So what's next, _Anya_ gets up there on the pole?" she wondered aloud.

"Anya can't dance," Harper informed her. "No, I'm sure we'll find some new girls before it comes to that."

Would they, though? They were doing a lousy job of recruiting. "I feel weird," Clarke admitted. "What're we supposed to do, just go up to girls and be like, 'Hey, you look like a stripper.'"

"I don't know." Harper slapped a pink flyer down on the windshield of a crappy car, even though they had no idea who it belonged to. 'You wanna forget about this and go grab some pizza?"

Clarke dumped the remainder of her flyers in the nearest trash can, all for that idea. "You know me well."

...

That night, even though she wasn't dancing, Clarke went to the club. Bellamy wasn't bartending, so that meant he was able to go with her. Almost like it was a date. Except they'd never really go on a date there, and they still had to pretend they weren't dating.

"Who's excited?" Anya boomed over the microphone, getting the crowd all worked up into a frenzy as Clarke strode inside with Bellamy right beside her. "Alright! Let's hear it for Luna!"

They hung towards the back, and Clarke had to stand up on her tiptoes to see over the heads of the men in front of her. Luna swayed sensually out onto the stage in vibrantly-colored belly dancer costume. She had on belt that jingled and jangled whenever her hips moved, which they did a lot. With her wild hair and exotic look, she actually looked like a professional belly dancer.

"Wow," Clarke said, a bit mesmerized. "I never realized how beautiful she really is." The dancing was so . . . so _pretty_. But she was quite possibly the only person watching who even gave a damn about that. McCreary and all those guys . . . they were just waiting for her to take her clothes off.

In the middle of Luna's routine, a guy Clarke barely even recognized came up behind her, said, "Oh, hey, bitch," and grabbed her butt, giving it a squeeze.

"Stop!" she yelped, jumping away from him.

Bellamy reacted right away, his hands flying out to shove that guy. "Get away from her!" he roared. He probably had to restrain himself from throwing a punch, but when the guy just chuckled and headed over to the bar, Bellamy turned back to Clarke, touched her shoulder and her face, and asked, "You okay? You okay?"

"Yeah." She nodded shakily, a bit taken aback. It _wasn't_ okay for someone to just come up to her and grab her like that, or to call her that, but sadly, she'd grown used to it. "Let's just get out of here," she said.

He put his arm around her, and while Luna continued to dance and the crowd continued to watch, they left. They didn't go far, though. The next stop Clarke had in mind was only a few blocks away, so they went on foot.

"From one club to another, huh?" Bellamy remarked.

"Roma told me this is where she's working now." She had no idea what to expect once they went inside.

"Looks real classy," Bellamy commented sarcastically as he held open the door for her.

She cast a nervous glance at the flickering neon sign above the entrance. _The Lusty Lady_ , this place was called. Underneath those words and a curvaceous neon pink outline of a woman was the slogan _We take off more than Boeing._ Right inside the door was a guy who was smoking a joint while checking ID. He didn't ask for Bellamy's and barely glanced at Clarke's before motioning for them to head on in.

From the moment she entered, Clarke's senses were assaulted by . . . just _sex_. Everywhere. It looked like sex, sounded like sex, even smelled like sex. There was one girl up on stage, halfheartedly moving through a striptease, but most of the attention was on the girls who were giving lap dances. There were many plush chairs and couches set all about, all of them facing the stage, and each one of them was occupied by some gross-looking man. And each man had a scantily-clad, half-naked woman in his lap, grinding on him, wriggling for him. There was a dance floor where Clarke was pretty sure she spotted one girl letting a customer bend her over and fuck her inconspicuously, and of course there was a bar, but the girls themselves were serving the drinks, oftentimes off their own bodies.

"Oh god." If this was really the place Roma was working now . . . she felt so _bad_ for her. "This place is disgusting."

"Yeah," Bellamy agreed. Then he pointed to one of the chairs and said, "There she is."

Clarke looked in that direction, and indeed . . . yep, there was Roma. She had on nothing but a black G-string bikini and was busy swiveling her hips atop the lap of a chubby guy who was smoking a cigar. Gross.

"You wanna get out of here?" Bellamy asked her.

She did, but they'd come for a reason. "No, I wanna talk to her." When Roma glanced her way, she waved dumbly—seriously, who _waved_ in a strip club?—and Roma held up her index finger as if to say, "One minute."

One of the girls strolled by Bellamy, stopping and giving him a second look before she came back. " _Hey,_ " she said, her voice low and throaty. "You look like you could use a lap dance."

"I'll pass," he said.

She pouted, then turned to Clarke. "What about you?"

"I'll pass, too," Clarke told her. "Sorry."

The girl just rolled her eyes at them and strutted over to the dance floor. Maybe to dance. Maybe to get fucked. It was hard telling in this place.

Clarke felt Bellamy's arm wrap around her waist, and that made her feel a little better. Thank God he was here with her, otherwise she would have been _really_ freaked out.

A woman who definitely _wasn't_ a stripper—didn't have the shape and was wearing a Lusty Lady t-shirt instead of latex—sidled up to them next, giving Clarke a curious look. "Hey," she said, chomping on her gum like a cow. "You lookin' for a job?"

"No." She _definitely_ wasn't.

"You sure?"

"Very." This place was making Grounders look like a worker's paradise.

"Alright, well, go have a seat," the woman said, motioning to an empty couch. "I'll bring you out some drinks, and one of the girls will be with you in a minute."

"Let's go," Bellamy said, grabbing her hand. He led her towards the couch, where at least they could sit by themselves, and put his arm around her again.

"Don't tell them I'm nineteen," she said. "I really need to drink something to survive in here."

Roma came to join them a minute or so after they'd had a seat. "Hey, guys," she greeted, sounding . . . cheerful.

"Hey, Roma," Clarke said, her heart immediately going out to her.

"Which one of you am I doing first?" Roma asked.

Clarke's eyes bulged, and she sent Bellamy an alarmed look. This chick thought she was giving them lap dances.

"Neither," he said.

"Yeah, we just came to see how you are," Clarke explained.

"Oh, I'm great." Roma sat down on the table where there drinks would go and bubbled, "In two days, I've made more than I'd make in two weeks at Grounders."

Clarke frowned, confused. "So you—you like it here." How was that possible?

Roma shrugged. "Yeah, it's alright. Some of the guys get a little grabby, but it's nothing I can't handle."

She shifted in her seat, thinking about how uncomfortable it had made her feel just to have one guy grab her ass tonight. It was probably common here. "Look at this place, though, Roma," she said. "Is this really the kind of job you want?"

"It's not about the job. It's about the money," Roma claimed.

"Well, if that's all it's about then . . ." She reached into her purse, digging around for whatever cash she had on hand. "Here, I have some money. I can help you out."

"No, Clarke . . ."

"Take it." She handed over a couple twenties, practically begging with her. "Please."

Roma thought about it for a moment, then hesitantly reached out and took the money from Clarke. "Thanks," she said. "Don't try to convince me to come back, though, alright? I've burnt that bridge with Anya. Besides, we all know my days there were numbered anyway."

Clarke lowered her head sadly, because . . . well, yeah, that was true. It was easy to sit here and judge Roma for her decision to leave Grounders, but in reality, she'd quit instead of getting fired. Either way, her time there had been winding down.

"What about Vivian?" Bellamy asked. "Is she working here?"

Roma shook her head. "No."

"What's she doing then?" Clarke asked, even more worried about that girl. At least Roma was a full-fledged adult. Vivian was really young, like her.

"I think she's gonna take that woman up on her offer," Roma answered, and by 'that woman,' Clarke could only assume she was referring to Charmaine Diyoza. _That_ woman. _That_ offer.

"I gotta get back to work," Roma said, standing up. "Bye, you guys." For a second, there seemed to be a flicker of sadness in her eyes as she left, but she soon hopped onto the lap of a man a few seats down, and she buried that sadness again. Like so many of the girls there probably did.

The night had been a bust, _clearly._ Going to see Luna had resulted in nothing more than sexual harassment, and going to see Roma had made it clear that there was no saving her from herself. Clarke felt bad, but she also felt sort of . . . helpless. If Roma wanted to sacrifice _that much_ of her dignity just to make a buck, then no one could stop her.

She lay in bed with Bellamy that night, feeling so grateful for him. Because as scary as it was to think about, without him . . . she wasn't sure what kind of girl she'd be right now. He questioned her decisions, even outright disagreed with them when he needed to. He made her stop and think twice. He kept her . . . centered.

"I know what you're thinking," she said before either one of them could fall asleep.

"Oh, do you now?"

"Yeah." It was kind of obvious. "You're worrying. About me."

He let out a heavy exhale and admitted, "Yeah, I do that a lot."

She felt bad for worrying him, but that sort of came with the territory of her job. "You don't have to worry, though," she assured him. "I'm not gonna turn out like Vivian or Roma. Or Ontari. Any of them. You wanna know why?"

He rubbed his hand up and down her back. "Because you're better than that."

Hopefully. She definitely wanted to be. But there was more to it than that. "And because I have you," she said, lifting her head so her chin could rest on his chest. She smiled at him appreciatively, sleepily, and said, "You'd never let anything bad happen to me."

He smiled back at her, but . . . it wasn't a full smile. In fact, he kind of seemed like he didn't fully believe that. And she understood why. Things _had_ happened, mostly with Roan. Bad things. Even tonight, he hadn't been able to stop that loser from grabbing at her. But if it ever came down to it, she felt like Bellamy would always be there to save her if she ever needed saving.

...

"Really? This is the best you could find?" Anya's exasperation was a quiet one, but unmistakable.

Clarke looked around the rehearsal space at the dozen or so girls who had shown up for the audition. Most of them were either too big or too skinny or . . . just not pretty enough. It sounded harsh, but they were in appearance-oriented business here. The girls had to look a certain way to appeal to the crowds.

"Let's just give them a chance," she suggested. Maybe some of them would turn out to be amazing dancers or performers or something. A diamond in the rough.

"Did you hand out _any_ flyers?" Anya asked.

"Well, we hung up a few." She cringed.

Her boss rolled her eyes and said, "Teach 'em the basics," before she marched out of the room.

 _Here goes nothing,_ Clarke thought. She wasn't used to being in this role, and in fact, she'd hoped Harper would be the one to do it. But Harper was busy with her classes, trying to finish out strong and make the Dean's list. So the responsibility fell to her and her alone now that Luna was . . . getting her own routines ready to perform.

"Okay, hi, girls," she said, having to talk loudly to be heard over their chatter. "Ladies. I'm Clarke. I'm gonna-"

"Oh my god, you're the Girl Next Door!" a bottle-blonde interrupted excitedly. "The one they totally pimp out at this place."

Clarke made a face. _Pimp out?_

"My boyfriend comes here all the time. He says you're his favorite."

"That's great." Egotistical as it sounded, she knew she was a lot of people's favorite. She didn't need to hear about it, nor did she really want to.

"Yeah, he has this poster of you," the girl babbled on. "He hung it on the refrigerator. Now whenever his friends come over, they just stand around gawking at it and getting all turned on."

" _Okay_ ," she said sharply, having heard more than enough of that. "We're gonna go ahead and get started. I'm gonna teach you a really basic routine, and then Anya's gonna come in and watch. So everybody, grab the pole . . ." It was time to get down to business.

The routine was really _so_ simple. Barely any tricks, just a couple fan kicks, pirouettes, and a simple fireman's spin. The majority of it was sensual dancing, lots of body rolls and hip swivels. But most of the girls were struggling even with that. They were so stiff and rigid. Clarke tried to tell them to loosen up. She demonstrated the difference between the correct way to do the moves and the incorrect way. She even put her hands on some girls' hips and _showed_ them how big the movements had to be. But nothing worked. And none of them took it seriously. When they made a mistake, they laughed and started talking. Clarke even had to snap at them at one point, because they had a limited amount of time to learn what they could, and they weren't using it well.

When it came time to show Anya, none of the girls could even do the dance in time with the music, so Clarke had to be up in front of them, demonstrating. Anya stopped the music early, clearly unimpressed, and said, "Thank you. I'll call you if I'd like you to come back tomorrow."

Clarke took a much-needed drink, pretty sure she'd worked harder than any of the girls auditioning, and waited until they'd all collected their things and left before she said, "You're not calling anyone, are you?"

"No." Anya didn't look pleased. "You did your best with them, I'll give you that. But there isn't one in the bunch who we can mold. Luckily, I have a backup plan." She motioned for Clarke to follow her out of the room.

When they walked back out into the club, she was shocked to find . . . a new girl on the stage, whipping herself around that pole, long, blonde hair flying everywhere. It wasn't just _any_ new girl, either; it was . . . "Niylah?" Clarke shrieked.

"Hey, look at me! Woo!" Niylah exclaimed, mimicking some of the moves she'd seen them do. She was a little clumsy, but . . . enthusiastic?

"But you're a bartender," Clarke reminded her.

"I can do both." She slid down off the pole, grinning excitedly. "And we already came up with my name: The _Lesbian_ Lover. Those pervs are gonna eat that up."

Oh, they definitely were. But it was so . . . degrading. Not only had Anya recruited Niylah for this, but now she wanted to make a brand out of her sexuality, use it to lure in and entice people to become fans of her? Maybe Niylah wasn't offended by it, but as a bisexual woman herself, Clarke was.

"Niylah doesn't have any formal training," Anya said, "but I figure she's watched you girls enough to learn a few things. Work with her a little before you leave tonight, alright? Get her ready to go." It wasn't a request; it was clearly an instruction, one Clarke was going to have to follow.

...

"What the hell?" Bellamy spat, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief. "Niylah, too?" He paced around the kitchen, infuriated by that decision. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me." At this rate, Anya was just going to cycle through _all_ her female employees. "Shit's fallin' apart around there, Clarke," he said. "You sure you don't just wanna get out now?"

She leaned against the counter, sighing. "It's only temporary," she said. "Anya just needs time to find a new girl."

"New _girls_ ," he corrected. "Three of 'em. Harper's only got a few weeks left."

"Yeah, that's gonna be a big loss."

That was probably an understatement. The more Bellamy thought about the future of that club, the more concerned he became. Clarke was Number One, but there wouldn't be a definitive Number Two once Harper left. There had been plans for Vivian, he was sure, but she was gone now. Luna could probably build up quite the following if she kept dancing, but . . . hell, she was Anya's _business_ partner. She shouldn't have been dancing to begin with.

"I don't know," Clarke said, rubbing her forehead. "Maybe if Niylah ends up being really good, she'll stick with it."

"Oh, she'll stick with it, I'm sure," he predicted. "What's she supposed to do, just go back to bartending after all this?" He shook his head, not seeing how that would ever be possible. "No, they'll only see her one way from now on. They'll see her as a stripper."

Clarke bristled a bit, and he really hoped he hadn't offended her with that word. But . . . that was what she was. For the people who didn't know her, that was _all_ they saw when they looked at her.

"I think we just have to weather the storm," she said, grabbing him by his belt loops as he paced by her. She pulled him in to her and said, "I'm fine. I'm . . . doing what I usually do, and it's working, so . . ." She trailed off, trying to smile. She looked nervous, too, though, despite trying to hide it. "You can't make a big deal out of all this, alright?" she said. "You don't need to give Anya any more reason to fire you."

That was probably true, but . . . it just wasn't in his nature to stand back and let her do something he thought was a mistake. So the next day, he went and confronted her about it, not holding back.

"Hey, Bellamy," she said, supervising as someone fiddled with the lights up on the stage. She barked out orders, and he waited for her to quiet down before he launched in.

"Have you lost your mind?"

She snorted and grumbled, "What a way to talk to your boss. So respectful."

There was no need to mince words; they'd had enough disagreements that they were well beyond that now. "Throwing Luna and Niylah up on stage is a bad idea," he warned. "You want people to respect the girls who work here, but what kind of message does that send when you make your business partner and one of your bartenders get up there and dance? It makes it seem like _you_ don't respect them. So if you don't, then why the hell should anyone else?"

"Bellamy-"

"You _know_ that's what the guys who come here are gonna think. It's a slippery fuckin' slope, Anya. They're gonna start to think no one's untouchable here."

"For the record," she growled, "I didn't _make_ them do anything. They both volunteered."

"Yeah, but you still agreed to let 'em do it."

"Well, would you rather I didn't?" she roared. She glared at him, clearly feeling as upset with him as he was with her. "Would you rather _all_ of the responsibility for this club be on Clarke's shoulders? Because that's what would have happened."

 _Clarke . . ._ He thought about the other night, how worn out she'd been after dancing that _whole_ time all by herself. All the things those guys had shouted at her that night, the way they'd looked at her . . . she couldn't keep doing that. It was too much for anyone, let alone a nineteen year old girl.

"I didn't think so," Anya snarled. She shook her head, turned her back to him, and resumed giving commands to the guy working on the lights. She didn't care about anything he had to say; she didn't value his opinion. Probably never had.

He resigned himself to not having gotten through and sulked out. This sucked. He still felt like the club was on the decline, and it seemed like it wasn't going to be easy to elevate it back up again. But he didn't want all that pressure to do so placed on Clarke. She didn't deserve that kind of burden. So he was gonna have to force himself to be okay with this Luna and Niylah thing, because ultimately, they weren't his priority. Clarke was.


	50. Chapter 50

_Chapter 50_

Clarke was out for a run—sans Bellamy, who'd gone to get some food and more condoms—when she spotted Vivian. She was standing outside Grounders, looking at the group photo of them hanging in the window. A solo photo of Clarke was on one side of it, a solo photo of Harper on the other.

Darting across the street when there was a quick break in traffic, Clarke approached the other girl cheerfully. "Hey, Viv."

Vivian startled a bit as she looked away from the poster. "Oh, hey, Clarke."

 _Wow, she looks . . . different,_ Clarke thought. She'd never once seen Vivian without all her makeup on. She'd always looked cute and spunky, but right now, her eyes were red and puffy, like she'd been crying.

"You look really pretty in that picture," she said, motioning towards Vivian in the group photo.

Vivian smiled shyly. "Thanks."

Clarke wasn't sure how to segue into a serious conversation, so she just decided to go for it. "So I heard you quit," she said.

"Yeah." Vivian looked down at her feet, shrugging. "Just thought I'd try something new."

Even though she suspected she already knew what Vivian had been up these past couple days, Clarke asked about it anyway. "What'd you try?"

Vivian's eyes were tear-filled when she raised them, but still, she just mumbled, "It doesn't matter."

It did, though. The girl looked . . . more than sad. She looked _shaken._ Clarke didn't want to imagine what kind of degrading things Charmaine had convinced her to try, but it was hard not to. "Well, are you coming back?" she asked her, hopeful that seeing her loitering around outside the club meant that she was going to resume working there again.

Vivian shook her head sadly. "No. I talked to Anya, but . . . she said she can't hire back someone who flakes on her."

 _I could talk to her,_ Clarke thought, _try to get her to change her mind._ It probably wouldn't work, but it couldn't hurt.

"I see Niylah's dancing now, though," Vivian remarked. "And . . . Luna?"

"Yeah." That . . . still felt weird to her.

"That's . . . interesting," Vivian said. She whipped her phone out of her purse when she got a text, and Clarke wasn't sure, but she thought she might have seen Charmaine's name pop up on the screen. "Well, I gotta go," Vivian said quickly. "I'll see you around, though." She halfheartedly waved as she headed down the sidewalk without a single bounce in her step.

"Bye." Clarke watched her go, and she felt . . . she just felt so _sorry_ for her. There had been two very different roads in front of Vivian, and she'd chosen the wrong one to go down. And it had happened so quickly. And no one, not Anya or her or Bellamy, had been able to stop it.

She was so glad to be able to crawl into bed with Bellamy that night. When she cuddled up next to him, it was like the bad parts of the day just melted away.

"This week's been kinda stressful," she said as she crawled over him to get to her side of the bed.

"Yeah, a little bit." He winced and groaned when she accidentally stuck her knee into his stomach.

"Sorry," she apologized, curling her legs up underneath herself. "I don't have to work tomorrow, though."

"Neither do I. I took the day off. Convinced the new bartender to fill in for me," he said with a smirk. Chuckling, he shook his head. "Dumbass."

"So we can spend the whole day together then?" She felt her whole face light up at the thought. "Like another relaxing, just-you-and-me day?"

"If you want."

"Oh, I want. I need." It was so much easier to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist when she didn't actually have to venture out into it. "In fact, you know what we should do? We should just have sex all day."

"All day, huh?" He rubbed his hand on her thigh. "Yeah, I'm down for that."

"Don't be down. Be up," she said, poking at his package. She lay down, curling up against him, draping one leg over his hips. "You gotta be up, Bellamy."

"I'll be up," he said with a laugh. "I promise."

She smiled, moaning contentedly. Maybe if Vivian had a guy like Bellamy to come home to, she'd have made some different decisions.

...

It started out with a nice slow fuck. Bellamy awoke behind Clarke, his arms wrapped around her waist, and it just seemed like a good idea to use sex to wake her up. He rubbed up on her ass and massaged between her legs, and gradually that brought her out of her slumber. She stayed right there, though, on her side, all horny and eager first thing in the morning. He could tell she wanted him just by the way she was moaning and pushing her butt back against him, so he slid her shorts off and squirmed out of his boxers, too, and the only time he moved out of their spooning position was to grab a condom off the nightstand and roll it on.

He slid into her from behind, feeling that familiar rush of warmth when he was inside her. They fit so well together, and sex with her felt so fucking good.

He got off doing it that way, but she didn't, so automatically, his entire focus shifted to getting her to cum, too. The easiest way (and his favorite way) of accomplishing that was to eat her out, so he pulled his cock out of her, told her to lie on her back and spread her legs, and then proceeded to go down on her. And she just loved it. She was such a wild thing, thrashing and gripping at the sheets and reaching down to pull at his hair. He'd always loved going down on girls, but going down on _this_ girl was just something else.

She came pretty hard after he'd only spent a couple minutes in between her legs. Part of him was tempted to try to escalate her arousal, just keep licking up her folds and flicking his tongue against her clit to see if he could get her to cum again. But giving her pleasure had been quite the pleasurable thing for _him_ , and his cock wanted back in on the action. So he put on a new condom, crawled on top of her, and drove back into her again.

As much as Clarke liked being on top, he knew she liked missionary, too, liked letting him have all the control. He didn't bother with any slow fucking this time. He pounded his hips against hers, causing the whole bed to move, the headboard to knock against the wall. She was so slick with her own juices, and the sounds their fucking made . . . oh god, the sounds.

"Yeah. Yeah," she whispered beneath him, spurring him on. "Oh, yeah." But it wasn't until she said, "Harder, Bellamy. Fuck me harder," that he _really_ let himself be aggressive with her. If she wanted it hard, he could give it to her hard. He felt like an animal as he pulled almost all the way out of her, leaving only the tip of his cock inside, then rammed forward again. He repeated that motion, jostling her whole body, and she clung to him desperately as he rocked within her. Her moans became louder, more intense, and he felt her start to quiver around him.

"Yes!" she screamed. "Yes! _Yes_!" She let out a high-pitched wail of pleasure, the kind he was sure would make somebody call the cops. It was probably time to put a sign on the door telling the neighbors all the sounds they would be hearing today were pleasured sounds, not pain.

He stilled his hips, giving her a moment to come down from her orgasm before he continued. _If_ he continued. Maybe she needed a break.

Clearly she didn't, though, when she begged him, "Fuck me some more," and lifted her hips up to meet his again.

He really wasn't sure how she could keep going, but he didn't question it. He sat back, lifted her up, and brought her into his lap so they could really move together. Somehow, that morphed into her on top of him, pushing his shoulders back onto the bed so she could lean back, brace her hands on his thighs, throw her head back, and ride him.

"Fuck yeah, Princess," he swore, watching her go. _Damn._ She really was a freak beneath the sheets, and he felt like they were annihilating that bed.

He'd lost track of the number of orgasms they'd both had by lunchtime, but she was literally _shaking_. She didn't seem to think she could ride him anymore, so he ended up back on top of her, once again slowly fucking in to her, mostly because they'd given themselves _quite_ the workout so far this morning, and he was feeling the strain of it.

"You alright?" he asked her, not even concerned with cumming right now.

"Yeah," she said.

He nearly stopped thrusting and asked, "How's your pussy holdin' up?" He felt like he'd been pretty rough with her, all upon her urging, but still . . .

"I think . . . it needs to rest for a minute," she admitted.

Rest actually sounded just fine to him, too, so he lifted his hips to slide out of her. Maybe he could order some pizza, or go make them both sandwiches or something. Or . . . or they could change it up. "If it needs a break," he said, allowing his mind to venture into fantasy territory, as he kissed her lips and neck, "we could always switch to your ass for a while." He was just joking—pretty much—and even laughed at himself a bit.

At first, she laughed, too. She didn't say anything for a few seconds, but when she did . . . it blew him away. "Okay."

It took him a moment to register what she said because . . . girls didn't just _agree_ to something like that on a whim. "Wait, what?" he said, lifting his head from her neck. "You wanna do that?"

She smiled up at him. "Yeah, if you do."

No way. No _way._ He was dreaming or something; this couldn't be real. "Well, of course I do," he said. "I'm a guy. It's not up to me; it's up to you."

Smoothing her hands over his back and shoulders, she decided, "I'll do it."

 _Holy shit._ He looked around the room like an idiot, feeling like he was being Punk'd or something. "Have you ever actually _had_ anal sex before?" he asked her.

"No. But you have, right?"

"Yeah. Like, five or six times." Most of his anal sex experiences involved some alcohol. He'd been drunk, the girls had been drunk, and it'd sort of just happened.

"So you can steer me around the curves," she said sexily, giving him a quick kiss.

He chuckled, getting excited now. _Very_ excited. His cock jerked and twitched against her, and he had to roll off of her to keep from lifting her hips up a little higher and just charging right in to that uncharted territory. Flopping down onto his back, he marveled, "What is this? What's happening?"

"You're gonna fuck my ass," she said, climbing on top of him. "That's what's happening. And you're gonna be the first. The only." She kissed him again.

God, she really knew how to turn him on, didn't she? The thought of being the only person to have sex with her _that_ way, knowing that she was willing to give that to him and no one else . . . good _God_ , he was lucky.

"Oh, I am living my best life right now," he said, reluctantly lifting her off of him just because he wasn't sure he had much ability to control himself. "Oh, damn. Clarke, trust me, I have fantasized about this more than you know, but . . ."

She frowned.

"We haven't been doin' this that long," he pointed out. Their relationship had only been a sexual one for about two months now. Almost. "I don't wanna rush you."

"You're not," she assured him, propping herself up on her forearm. "I wanna try it. I wanna try it with you."

Oh, he wanted that, too, but more importantly, he wanted to make sure it was a good experience for her, so he had to make sure she was ready.

"Look, at one point, I'd never had oral sex," she pointed out. "Tried it, liked it. At one point, I'd never had regular sex. Tried it, liked it, too."

"Yeah, but anal's different." It was hard to explain to someone who hadn't ever done it before.

"Why is it different?" she challenged. "Because it's so painful? Well, guess what, regular sex was painful the first time. But then I did it again, and I ended up really liking it. Besides . . ." She traced her delicate fingers over his chest, smiling at him adoringly. "I trust you."

He sighed, gazing back at her, feeling his futile resistance begin to rapidly fade. Trust was pretty damn paramount when it came to anal. Even the alcohol-induced romps he'd had had required trust. He'd always made sure a girl told him she trusted him before he did her like that. And he hadn't even had to ask Clarke for her trust; he already had it.

It was gonna happen someday, he figured, so why not today?

"Okay," he relented.

"Okay," she echoed. "Okay, let's do it." She sprang into action then, clamoring up onto all fours, turning around so that her ass was facing him.

"Wait, wait, wait, you gotta, like . . . ease in to it," he told her, sitting up.

"Right." She peeked back over her shoulder and said, "I should probably shower first, shouldn't I?"

"Yeah." That would help _her_ feel comfortable with the whole thing more than anything else. "And . . . go to the bathroom?" He made a face, because that kind of thing wasn't exactly erotic to think about, but really . . . it was what it was. Anal sex took some preparation to go off without a hitch.

"Be right back," she chirped, hopping off the bed. She scampered into the bathroom and shut the door, and he rubbed one out before he heard the toilet flush. His stamina wasn't always at a high when it came to backdoor loving, but he was determined to draw it out for her as much as he could so that she could _really_ get a feel for it. That way she could decide if she wanted to keep doing it in the future.

"Don't fuck this up," he said to himself, rummaging around the nightstand drawer as he heard the shower kick on. "Don't fuck this up." He debated which lube to use, not really sure if one was better than the other, but then he remembered that he had lube back at his place that was specified for anal sex. So he pulled on his boxers, grabbed his keys, and hurried over to his place to get that. He was back before she even knew he was gone.

While she was finishing up in the shower, he lubed up his cock, testing it out. Yeah, that stuff would work well. It wasn't the kind that got sticky or wore off too quickly. He'd make sure to use a generous amount of it, maybe even more than he needed to, because he wanted her inevitable discomfort to be as minimal as possible.

Since he had a few minutes, he got on his phone and Googled a few things, things like, _How to make anal sex enjoyable for her,_ and _Giving her an anal orgasm._ The first one was, in his mind, a requirement. The second one was a goal. He'd given girls anal orgasms before, but those girls had more experience with it than Clarke. Everything he read pretty much said the same thing: trust and communication was key, take it slow, use lots of lube. He already knew all that stuff, so he tossed his phone onto the floor and figured he'd just do what felt right. Clarke had never been disappointed in his bedroom skills before, so there was no reason to think she would be now.

When Clarke emerged from the bathroom, she let a cloud of steam out with her. She stood in the doorway, all dried off but her hair still dripping, and she looked so fucking sexy, he could barely contain himself.

"This is gonna be fun," she anticipated, swaying towards him.

"Hopefully." Sex was always supposed to be that way.

"Bellamy Blake," she said, a teasing tone to her voice, "are you nervous?"

"A little," he admitted, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"But you've done this before," she reminded him, straddling his lap.

"Yeah, but . . ." He threaded his hands through her wet tresses and breathed in the scent of that floral body wash she liked to use. "I just wanna make it good for you."

"You always do," she said, giving him a quick kiss. "So how do we start?"

"With lots of lube," he said, reaching for the tube he'd brought over.

" _Lots_ of lube," she agreed emphatically, crawling off his lap. She stretched out, looking like she was about to lay down, but he grabbed a pillow and put it under her hips, feeling like she might feel a little more comfortable if they were elevated.

"Mmm," she purred as she lay down, pillowing her head on her forearms. "I'm ready."

She wasn't, though, and he knew that, so he had plans to ease her into it. "We're gonna take it slow," he told her, squirting an ample amount of lube onto his hands. "This is gonna feel weird."

"No, I think it's gonna feel good," she argued.

He was pretty sure it was just gonna feel _new_ to her, and because of that, it'd feel weird. "Here we go," he said, sliding his hand down the crack of her ass. He smeared the lube around her tight, puckered hole and watched it tense up beneath his touch.

"Oh, no, you were right," she acknowledged. "It feels weird."

"You want me to stop?" he asked, pausing.

"No."

"No?" He'd keep going then. He spread her cheeks, continuing to thoroughly coat the area. Her beautiful, creamy white skin got all shiny and slippery, and he pretty much decided to massage her. Anything to help her relax. Besides, she had a great ass, and her cheeks were so perfectly round and soft. He liked squeezing and molding her like she was clay.

"How's it feel now?" he asked after he'd been at it for a few minutes.

"Less weird," she replied.

Hell, he'd take it.

He kept up his massage for a couple more minutes, taking that time to apply a little more lube, but Clarke started to moan impatiently, so he decided it was time to amp it up a bit. "So my philosophy with sex is . . . if you wanna dick it, you gotta lick it," he said, coming up with that off the top of his head. "So . . ." He shrugged, scooting down on the bed, starting to lower his head.

"Oh my god, what?" she shrieked, flipping over. "You're gonna _lick_ my _ass_?"

"You just showered. It's fine."

She whimpered, looking . . . self-conscious.

"It's fine," he insisted. If she didn't wanna do it, he wouldn't. But this was edible lube, so clearly it was made for rim-jobs.

"Oh my god, now _I'm_ nervous," she said, turning back over onto her stomach. "Oh my god, oh my god."

"Relax," he told her. He ate her pussy out all the time. This was just . . . a different hole. He wasn't opposed to giving it a taste.

He spread her cheeks apart again, lowering his face so that he could just _tease_ her backdoor with the tip of his tongue. She yelped and tensed up a bit, but just as quickly, she took a deep breath and relaxed. He could practically hear her coaching herself to stay calm, to not freak out, and he was really impressed with how willing she was to be vulnerable with him. It couldn't be easy just lying here, letting somebody—even somebody you loved—lavish attention on _this_ part of you. But she was letting him do it, and he was into it.

He didn't have as much experience with _this_ type of oral, but he figured what worked for the pussy would work for the ass. So he pressed some kisses to her ass, focusing on the hole, of course, but also dropping a few onto the flesh around it. He licked at her greedily, alternating between a pointed tongue and a flat tongue, trying to vary the sensations he was providing her. Much as he did when he was eating out her pussy, he glanced up at her every now and then to check in, to gauge how she was doing. She had her eyes shut and was biting her bottom lip right now, which made him think that she was concentrating a _lot_ on what she was feeling, maybe trying to categorize how it was similar to and different from what she'd had done to her before.

When he circled his tongue around her asshole, trying unsuccessfully to push it in, she whispered, "Oh, wow," then laughed dazedly and said, "Oh my god, I can't believe we're doing this."

He couldn't, either, to be honest. He'd figured he'd have to earn this for a couple months more, but . . . he should have known Clarke would be down to try it sooner rather than later.

"It was your idea," he reminded her, breathing hotly against her hole.

"No, it was _your_ idea," she claimed.

"I was kidding. I didn't think you'd actually go for it."

"Well . . . I'm brave."

"That you are." He pressed one more sucking kiss to her hole, then gave it a few more licks before sitting up again. "We need more lube," he decided, reaching over her to grab it off the bed.

"The more lube, the better," she said. "Right?"

"Right." They hardly ever had to use it for regular sex, because Clarke . . . well, Clarke got pretty wet most of the time. But with this kind of sex, it was a necessity. "Okay, just stay relaxed," he said, squirting some directly onto his fingers. He slickened them up, hoping he was going slow enough. If Clarke hadn't asked him for anal today, he probably would have spent a couple days, maybe even a week or two, working up to it. But now they were both hyped about it, so there was no going back.

He poked gently at her hole with his index finger, giving her plenty of time to back out. But she didn't, so he went ahead and pushed it in. _Slowly,_ of course. She grimaced a little bit and whimpered, but her body stayed right there on that pillow.

"Good job," he said, so turned on at the sight of her asshole opening up for him. He pushed his finger in farther, just about to the second knuckle. He didn't want to stretch her too far too fast, though, so he stopped there.

"Is that two fingers?" she asked.

"No, it's just one," he informed her.

"One?"

"Yeah." And that one finger was nowhere near as big as his cock. Looking at her right now, he wasn't sure how they were going to manage to get him to fit. "Does it feel okay?"

"Yeah," she said breathily. "It's different. But it feels okay."

 _Good._ That was what he needed to hear to keep going. He began to pump his finger in and out, just barely, just enough to get her used to the feeling. The lube definitely helped, making it a lot slicker than it normally would have been. But it was still a squeeze, because up until today, it'd been untouched.

"I feel like you could try another," she told him after he'd been at that for a few minutes.

"Yeah?" He was so entranced, he probably could have sat there and just fingered her ass the rest of the day. "Tell me if you need to stop," he said as he probed her hole with his middle finger, too.

"Oh my god," she said, squeezing the pillow beneath her head as he started to push it in.

"Still okay?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm."

He shook his head in awe as somehow, his middle finger slid in alongside his other one. "God, it's so fuckin' tight," he said. The female body was a fucking amazing thing, though. How did it manage to do this?

His stimulation was definitely working. He stayed patient, gradually opening more and more of her up. He wasn't about to try a third finger at all, but he managed to get his two fingers in pretty deep. Clarke stayed pretty relaxed, all things considered, only clenching up a couple times. And whenever he did, he just stopped, waited for her to catch her breath, and tell him she was ready for him again.

"I wanna feel your cock on it," she told him suddenly.

 _Not_ in _it,_ he noticed, _but_ on _it._ He withdrew his fingers, watching as it immediately closed up again, then got on top of her, straddling her backside, giving her cheeks a little spank before sliding his cock up in between them.

" _Oh_ , yeah," she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut.

He sandwiched her ass cheeks around it, trying to mimic what a tit-fuck was like. "That looks hot," he said, sliding forward and backward. Her ass didn't give him _quite_ as much cushion for the pushin' as her boobs did, but it still felt _great_ on his cock. It was quite the sight to behold, especially when he thought about what it was all leading up to. Soon, he wouldn't just be _on_ that ass; he'd be right up in it, giving her what she wanted, giving it to her _first_.

"It feels good," she murmured throatily.

Yeah, it felt pretty damn good to him, too. Maybe a little too good. He'd had no idea how much rimming her and fingering her had turned him on, but now that his dick was in on the action, he felt like it was gonna explode.

"No," she groaned suddenly, and he stopped momentarily, thinking that she was saying that to him. He didn't even hear her phone ringing until right before she reached over onto the nightstand to pick it up. "No, what is this?" she grumbled before answering. "Hello?"

Fuck, he wasn't about to let a phone call interrupt them. He kept rubbing himself up and down the crack of her ass, totally losing himself in that.

"Today?" she said. "For how long?"

Oh, no, that didn't sound good.

She sighed heavily, disappointedly mumbling, "Yeah. Yeah, I can be there."

 _No, don't be anywhere,_ he mentally protested. _Stay here with me._ He halted his movements, feeling like she was about to get up and leave.

"That was Anya," she told him after she ended the call. "She wants me to practice with Niylah today. And then she wants me to work on a routine with Luna."

"For real?" That was such a cock-block.

"Yeah." She looked over her shoulder at him, pouting. "So much for having a day off."

"Dammit," he cursed. Sure, they'd still have tonight, but . . . fuck, they were in the middle of something.

"Can you cum just from doing this?" she asked him.

"Probably," he replied.

"Just do it then." She started to press her ass back against him, nearly driving him crazy. "Just fucking cum."

He groaned, feeling his balls tighten up as he basically humped her. Oh, well. At least all this foreplay wouldn't be for nothing.

...

Clarke's afternoon ended up being a full one. Not full of sex with Bellamy, as she'd been planning on, but full of rehearsal. Niylah . . . wasn't bad. She definitely showed a lot more talent and potential than any of the girls who had come in for the audition. But she totally owned up to not having a whole lot of upper body strength, so that made some of the moves difficult. Then Luna ran late, and by the time she showed up, Clarke was ready to go home. However, being the good, reliable employee she was, she stuck around, and they put a routine together, something that would surely, _surely_ drive the crowd wild. As if they needed to get any wilder.

She was both hungry and horny by the time she got home, but the horniness took precedent. "Honey, I'm home," she said in a sing-song voice. She found Bellamy sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand, remote in the other. But he didn't look lazy like Finn. He looked all sexy and enticing sitting there without a shirt on. She couldn't wait to have at him. "And I'm ready to get fucked," she announced, dropping her purse onto the floor. She undid her jeans and shimmied out of them without wasting any time, then whipped off her underwear, too.

"Wow, you are _really_ eager," he said, setting both items in his hands aside.

"I know. I've been thinking about it all day." He started to get up, but she pushed him back down onto the couch, totally willing to just do it right there if that was what he wanted.

His hands immediately came up to cup her ass, and as she kissed him, she had second thoughts about just launching right in. "Ugh, I'm all sweaty and gross from dancing, though," she said, getting up. "I have to go shower again." She hurried down the hall and into the bathroom to once again get all clean and sanitary. Sure, sex—especially this kind of sex—was bound to get her feeling all dirty again in no time, but hygiene was important, and Bellamy smelled all clean, so he'd probably done his part and taken a nice long shower today while she was gone.

She made it a quick but effective rinse, sort of regretting that she'd let her hair get all wet again. She felt like she looked like a wet dog when her hair was like this, and even though she'd been willing to leave it be this morning, now she thought better of it. So she took out her blow-dryer and hastily used it on her hair, making it lighter and more voluminous and just all around better.

"Are you drying your hair?" Bellamy called into the bathroom.

"Yes!" she yelled back.

"Clarke, it's anal sex, not a beauty pageant."

"I'll only be a minute," she promised, bending over and tossing her hair forward so she could dry off the underside.

Well, it was more than a minute, but it was totally worth it. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror afterward, she felt confident that she was looking her best. And confidence was key with anal sex . . . or so she assumed. She wouldn't have truly been able to focus on enjoying herself if she'd been worrying what she looked like.

When she came out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the side of the bed, lazily stroking his already hard, lubed up cock with one hand. He stopped what he was doing when he saw her standing in the doorframe, wearing only a towel, and his eyes widened when she let it fall to the floor. "Ta-da," she said, rubbing her legs together to create a little friction. God, he was _so_ sexy.

"Wow," he said, standing up. "You look beautiful."

She swayed towards him, sliding her hands up his sculpted chest. "You don't look too bad yourself." She looked down at his engorged cock, at the way it was pressing against his abdomen, and frankly, she didn't know how he was going to squeeze that into her butt. But his tongue and his fingers had ended up feeling pretty good this morning—different, but good. So she was ready to try. "Let's do this," she said, hopping up onto the bed. She got into the doggy style position, sticking her bum out far enough over the side of the bed that he could get to it easily.

"Oh, you wanna do it in this position, huh?" he said.

"Is this okay?" This was pretty much _the_ position she thought of when she thought of anal sex.

"Yeah," he said, coming to stand behind her. "You might be more comfortable if you lie down, though."

They could always switch it up during. No need to just do one position when they had all night to fool around. "I'll try this," she decided, wriggling her butt for him. "Lube me up."

He chuckled and got to work, applying the same generous amount of lube he'd used this morning. Maybe even more so. It almost felt like _too much,_ but then again, with anal sex, was there really such a thing? She trusted that he knew what he was doing. If nothing else, he certainly knew more than she did.

When he was done, he grabbed onto her hips and asked, "You ready?"

"Yeah." Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, but she tried to ignore them.

"I'll go slow," he promised.

She hissed sharply when she felt the head of his cock nudging against her hole, not pushing in, but just making contact. God, Bellamy was big. She loved that, of course, but right now . . . it _was_ kind of intimidating.

 _Don't freak out. Don't freak out,_ she told herself over and over again. This was the guy she loved, and it was a new way of _making_ love with him. She could handle it. She could totally—

"Ow!" she yelped, jolting forward when he started to ease inside. She fell down on her side and instinctively reached down to cover up her ass, because . . . good _lord_ , that was painful. "Oh . . ." she groaned, disappointed that it had hurt so much. "Ow."

"You okay?" he asked, immediately following it up with an apology. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm fine," she assured him, her voice wavering. "It just . . . it hurts." She felt tears sting her eyes as her lower lip quivered, and she _really_ didn't want to get all weepy and emotional right in front of him. "I can't do this," she said, springing off the bed. "I'm sorry, Bellamy." She ran into the bathroom and shut the door, unable to keep from crying. She sat down next to the bathtub on the rug and just let it all out. It wasn't the pain causing the tears; it was her reaction to it. She hated getting him all worked up just to let him down.

Bellamy gave her a couple minutes to herself, but she knew it must have broken his heart to be on the other side of that door, listening to her cry. Eventually, he knocked softly and said, "Clarke? Can I come in?"

She didn't answer, but he slowly opened the door.

"Hey . . ." He had on sweatpants now, and his bulge wasn't nearly as bulgy as it could have been. He sat down beside her and said, "Come here," as he put his arm around her and pulled her close against his side. "It's okay. Don't cry."

"But I feel bad," she whimpered. "I mean, I'm the one who says we should do this, and then I can't go through with it? It's embarrassing." She'd _never_ cried during sex with Finn. Never, not even the first time. Now Bellamy probably felt bad, too, because he'd blame himself for hurting her. But it wasn't his fault. He'd done what he was supposed to do; she just . . . couldn't handle it.

"Clarke, we don't have to have anal sex," he told her, being totally supportive and understanding.

"But I want to," she protested. This wasn't just something she'd wanted to do _for_ him; it was something she'd wanted to do _with_ him. So in a way, it wasn't even just that she'd let him down. She'd let herself down, too.

"Don't worry about it, okay? Come here." He lifted her into his lap like she weighed nothing, and she hugged him as a few more tears rolled down her cheeks, feeling very small and very young in that moment. But even with the turn this had taken, he still managed to make her feel loved. Totally and completely _loved._ And for that, she was grateful.


	51. Chapter 51

_Chapter 51_

"Bellamy?"

Still mostly asleep, Bellamy could faintly register hands on his back. Soft, delicate hands, so different than his own. He felt Clarke leaning against his back a moment later, practically lying on top of him as she whispered in his ear, "Wake up, wake up, Mr. Blake."

"Mmm . . ." She really never called him that—hell, no one did—but he liked it. Mostly because . . . well, it made him think of people calling her _Mrs._ Blake someday. Down the line a year or two from now. "Morning, Princess," he said groggily, rolling over onto his back. He squinted against the sunlight peeking in through the blinds and took a moment to appreciate how fucking sexy she looked in the morning. With her hair all tousled and her eyes and lips all natural and not done up . . . shit, he'd never seen a girl wake up so pretty. "How you doin'?" he asked her. Last night had been . . . emotional for her.

"Better," she said. "I got all the crying out of my system, I promise."

"Don't even worry about it." Hell, he was used to it. He'd deflowered a couple girls back in high school, both of whom had cried _profusely_ either before or after. And one girl had even cried _during_ , which had been traumatizing for him, but she'd told him to just keep going. At least Clarke had stopped him before they'd actually been in the middle of it.

"You're a good boyfriend," she said, resting her hand on his chest.

Oh, she had no idea what that meant to him. First of all, just hearing him call him her boyfriend made his chest swell with pride. But praising him for being a good one . . . that was something else entirely. "That's good to hear," he told her. "'cause when it comes to dating . . . I don't have so much experience."

"Yeah, I might have more than you," she said.

"You do. 'cause, I mean, I had Bree, but . . ." He made a face. "I didn't fuckin' care about Bree." It was harsh, but it was true. "And there's been a couple other girls, but . . . you're definitely the only _serious_ girlfriend I've ever had."

She smiled happily. "Because you _love_ me."

"Yeah." He put his hand on top of hers, linking their fingers together. "See, you're not the only one trying something new."

"Mmm." She leaned down, pressing her lips to his, and he thought they might be headed for a nice morning make-out until she lifted her head suddenly and blurted, "I kinda wanna try again."

"What?" He wrinkled his forehead, confused, but . . . hopeful. "Anal sex?"

"Yeah." She blushed.

"Even after last night?"

"Well, I thought about it, and I think I just tensed up," she said. "But I feel like I can do it if I just stay relaxed."

She could; he was sure of that. But she'd gotten so worked up last night. They must have sat in that bathroom together for half an hour before she'd managed to calm down. She'd been so disappointed and so embarrassed, and he didn't want her to feel that again. "We don't have to try it again, Clarke," he told her, even though the thought of fucking her ass . . . yeah, it was still his number one fantasy.

"I want to," she insisted. "I'm serious. Please, don't think you're pressuring me or anything. You've been so . . . patient."

He'd really tried to be, and he was willing to be patient some more if that was what she needed.

"I wanna do this with you," she said. "I wanna share it with you."

Oh god, he wanted to share it with her, too. _So_ badly. Because he knew it would feel amazing—for him, at least—and it would probably bring them even closer. He felt like he'd know her in a way no one else ever had before, and that would be special.

He put up some mild resistance, just to make sure she was _absolutely_ certain she wanted to try again. And she didn't back down. She assured him she wouldn't run out of the room crying this time, and he assured her that it was fine if she did. After multiple reassurances from both of them, they finally gave in to it.

He put her back in a better position this time, her lying flat on her stomach with a pillow elevating her hips so he could deliver the foreplay. He didn't just concentrate on her ass, either; he paid attention to both her ass and her pussy, giving her a _thorough_ tonguing all over down there. She had a small orgasm from that, and he felt like that was a good sign. Anal sex was supposed to be easier on girls after they'd already cum once.

Their lube had dwindled down, but there was definitely enough for one more attempt. He put plenty of it on her, fingered her hole for a couple minutes just to get it opening back up again, and then smeared the rest of the lube on his cock.

"You comfy?" he asked, rubbing it up in between her cheeks, the way he had yesterday morning.

"Yeah."

"And everything feels good?"

She moaned contentedly. "Everything feels _great._ "

He liked the sound of that. Grabbing her hips, he said, "Let me fuck you like this a little bit first," and eased his cock into her pussy, eliciting a high-pitched gasp of surprise from her.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

He took it easy, not overdoing it, using the more standard penetration as extended foreplay, basically. He didn't stay in there for long, just long enough to coat his shaft in her natural lubrication, too, then pulled out and watched her juices drip down her lower lips.

"Come here," he said, lying down on his side. He pulled her up against him, her back to his chest, spooning her from behind. The head of his cock poked at her crack, practically begging entry, but he refused to rush things. "If you change your mind again, that's okay," he reminded her.

"No, I'm not changing my mind this time," she said decisively.

God, this girl . . . she was so stubborn, and that was sexy. "Lift your leg up," he instructed.

She did as he said, thereby spreading her ass open further for him. He grabbed the base of his cock with one hand, positioning it right at her rear entrance, nudging the very tip of it against her hole. "Just stay calm, alright?" he whispered in her ear. "I got you."

She closed her eyes, hooking one hand underneath her knee to help hold her leg up. He wanted to rub and massage her body, but he had to guide himself inside her first. It didn't just slide in like it did in her pussy.

He took it _excruciatingly_ slowly, nudging and poking for a couple of minutes before he finally started to press in. It wasn't easy, and even though he was taking his time, she still grimaced as if she were feeling some pain. Or maybe discomfort was a better word. Because she didn't jerk forward to get him out this time. She let him stretch her so that the head of his cock pushed in, and he wished he had a better view of it. He would have loved to watch it happen. But this position was probably the best for her first time, so he could get by with just feeling it instead of seeing it, too. "That's good," he said to her, bringing one arm up so he could drape it over her midsection and reach up to palm her breasts. "It's in, babe. You did it." He pressed forward, stretching her a little more, but kept his penetration pretty shallow. He didn't have any expectations of going balls deep in her right now, or possibly ever. He didn't wanna do anything she wasn't comfortable with, anything that would hurt her.

"Oh my god," she said, sounding completely _stunned_ as she lay there with him, lowering her leg, just getting used to the feel of being joined with him down there.

"I'm not gonna move until you tell me to," he said, dropping a gentle kiss onto her shoulder, then the back of her neck.

At first, she _didn't_ tell him to move. He wasn't sure how long they just lay there like that together, but it must have been several minutes. His hand kept busy on her breasts, his lips on her neck, and even though his cock was literally _twitching_ with anticipation inside her, he kept his hips still. No rush. Eventually, she did peer back over her shoulder and give him a wordless nod, though.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yeah," she confirmed.

He was a little worried to move, but if she told him she was ready, then he believed she was ready. Rolling his hips forward gently, he began some slow, careful thrusts into her, never pushing his cock in past half of its length. "Just tell me if you need to stop," he said.

"Mmm." She bit her bottom lip, but she didn't look in _pain_ ; just focused. And she kept that look on her face for a few minutes, minutes in which the only sounds she made were these little moans. Finally, she said some words again, though, when she scratched out, "Oh, god," and, "Oh, Bellamy."

His hips stilled. "You alright?"

"Uh-huh," she said with a dazed nod. "Keep going."

Thank God she didn't wanna stop, because he felt like he was completely _locked in_ down there, and his balls were starting to draw up. "Oh, fuck," he swore, resuming his motions. "You're so tight." The lube made sliding in and out completely possible, but . . . damn, there was just this knowledge in the back of his mind that no one had ever been inside her like this before. It was just him. He was the only one who knew just how incredible this felt.

"Uh . . ." she groaned, arching her back a bit. "Does it feel good?"

"Yeah." He felt himself working up a sweat as he fucked her. "It feels so fuckin' good on my cock."

And then, she said the two words that made his whole world go nuclear: "Go deeper."

He wasn't sure how much deeper he could go—or _should_ go—right now. "You sure?" he asked her.

"Yeah."

He removed his hand from her breast, hiking her leg up again, pushing a little more of his cock into her. He still didn't thrust as deeply as he would have with normal sex, but since she was taking it pretty well, he gave her what she wanted. It felt so good being surrounded by her, by this _part_ of her. Like a drug. One time, and he was already addicted.

"Uh . . ." she said again, even experimenting with pressing her ass back against him a bit. "Don't let me go, Bellamy."

"I won't," he promised, letting go of her leg wrap his arm around her stomach and breasts again. He held her close to him and rasped, "I'm right here."

She whimpered as he picked up the pace of his thrusts a bit.

"Clarke." He cupped her face, turning her head so she had to look at him. "I'm right here," he repeated.

That brought a smile to her face, the sort-of-out-of-it kind. She fell into that happy haze a lot during sex.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, "I'm gonna cum." He felt it building up, and he knew he wasn't gonna be able to suppress it. It would've been nice to get her off, too, but for her first time with anal, he didn't have any expectations of that. Her legs were too close together for him to reach down and rub her clit, so . . . next time. Because he was pretty sure there'd be a next time.

"I'm gonna cum, Clarke," he told her again. He squeezed one of her breasts, buried his face in her hair, and thrust up into her a few more times before letting it go. His brains shot out through his cock, straight into her.

"Oh, yeah," she moaned, riding it out with him even though she hadn't experienced quite the same thing. He knew that she liked feeling him cum inside her, but since they either used condoms or pulled out most of the time, she didn't get to feel it much.

He lay there with her for a minute afterward, reluctant to detach himself from her. But slowly, he did, and he looked down, wondering if he'd see his own cum dripping out of her. There was definitely some of it seeping out of her ass. God, that was hot.

Rolling over onto her back, she gazed up at him, smiling contentedly. "I'm glad we tried that again," she said.

"Me, too." He gave her a kiss, _so_ in awe of how much she trusted him. She was nineteen; she'd only ever been with one other person in her life. He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd been reluctant to do this with him. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve you," he said. "I'm so lucky."

"So am I," she said. And that smile of hers grew.

...

"Look at what I got here."

Bellamy tried not to look—he really did—when McCreary came up to the bar and unrolled a poster. A poster of Clarke. But how could he not look?

"Nice, huh?" McCreary licked his lips as he stared at the photo. In it, Clarke was facing backward, peeking over her shoulder with a surprised, innocent look on her face. The only thing she was wearing were panties that said _Grounders_ on the back, so it was definitely a photo that emphasized her . . . that part of her.

"That's all you're ever gonna get from her," Bellamy mumbled, turning around to clean off some glasses in the three-bin sink.

Unfortunately, McCreary lingered, even took a seat on a barstool. "Look at that ass," he said.

 _I already know what it looks like,_ Bellamy thought, trying so hard to keep his cool. He knew it intimately.

"Mmm. She's one hell of a body."

God, this son of a bitch was testing him, though. Clarke was a _body_? Just a body, not even a person to him? Just a body photographed on his merchandise?

"Too bad she's not dancing tonight."

He was glad she wasn't. As bad of an idea as he still thought it was to have Luna in the performance rotation now, the bright side was that Clarke didn't have to shoulder so much of the workload around there. No more of those nights where she had to perform _all_ night.

Needing to get away from McCreary, Bellamy dried off his hands, grabbed the new bartender, Atom, by his shoulder, and said, "I'm gonna take a break."

"Oh, uh . . ." Atom looked unsure of what to do. "Anya just told me I should take mine."

Bellamy groaned inwardly. Of course she had. Just his fucking luck. He motioned Atom off and resigned himself to having to put up with this loser for at least a few more minutes.

"How'd Clarke end up here anyway?" McCreary asked him as he rolled up his poster. "Did you get her a job?"

"No," he grunted. "I didn't want her working here."

"Why not?"

"Because of guys like you," Bellamy blurted.

"Guys like me?" McCreary just looked at him for a few seconds, then broke out into a chuckle. "You mean to tell me, if you got paid to have sex with beautiful women on camera, you _wouldn't_ do it?"

He hated to admit that he'd considered it before. So he wasn't gonna admit it.

"We're probably not that different," McCreary said.

"Well, Clarke's different," Bellamy argued, because that was really the most important thing. "She's not like the girls in your movies, so stop trying to make her into one."

McCreary held his hands up and said, "Hey, we backed off. We got Vivian now."

He felt bad for Vivian, really, but . . . she wasn't his responsibility. "Yeah, but you still want Clarke," he said, getting the sense that this guy and Charmaine . . . they weren't going to stop frequenting that club anytime soon, and they weren't going to stop trying to lure in his girlfriend.

"Yeah, we do," McCreary admitted unabashedly. "I don't know, she's just got that something special. A little sparkle in her eye. You know?"

Oh, yeah, he knew. He knew better than anyone.

"You're gettin' with her," McCreary said, "so tell me . . . is she good at sucking cock?"

Bellamy tensed.

"I'm just asking." McCreary shrugged innocently, as if anything about that question were innocent.

 _And I'm not telling,_ Bellamy thought. He wasn't Finn.

"Alright, here's my proposal: You bring her to set, we have some fun with her," McCreary suggested, once again talking about Clarke as if she were a thing instead of a person. "One of us plugs into her cunt, the other one drills her ass. What do you say?"

What he was describing . . . it made Bellamy's blood boil just thinking about it, just imagining Clarke getting used in that way. And given that he'd just spent his morning exploring a new type of sex with her, he felt even _more_ protective. "Get the fuck away from me," he grumbled, making sure there was an edge, a warning to his voice. He'd fucking lose it if he had to hear anymore.

"Sorry," McCreary said, obviously not sorry. "Didn't mean to strike a nerve." He grabbed his poster, got up, and strolled back over to his group of friends, all of whom were doing shots and preparing for Luna to take the stage.

 _Get back to work,_ Bellamy told himself, finally taking that glass out of the sink. He needed to set it on the drying rack, but . . . all he could do was just stand there, holding it tightly, his jaw clenched just as much as his hand was. McCreary's vile words echoed throughout his mind, words that painted a disgusting picture in his mind despite how hard he was just trying to picture Clarke's happy smile this morning instead.

The glass in his hand broke. Just shattered right there. He hadn't even realized he'd been gripping it so hard, but . . . apparently he had. Some people heard and gave him a weird look, but he just ignored them. Dammit, he had a couple of shards in his palm, though, and a small amount of blood was coming out.

Anya must have heard, because she came rushing over there, asking, "Bellamy, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, picking the shards out. "Just clumsy."

"Well, go clean your hand up," she told him, bending down to carefully pick up every broken piece of glass on the floor. "I've got this."

He headed back into the employee bathroom to wash his hand off. Trails of red swirled down the sink. Now that the glass was out, it was bleeding more than it had before. There were no bandages back there, but he knew they had a first-aid kit somewhere. He'd have to find that.

When he heard someone knock on the door, he spat, "What?" not in the mood to deal with anybody.

At the same time that she opened the door, Anya asked, "Can I come in?"

He rolled his eyes. She was already in, wasn't she? Didn't matter whether he gave him permission or not. He tore off some paper towels from the dispenser and dried off his hand, trying to disguise the cuts from her, because they were a little worse than they'd looked at first, and he didn't want her freaking out.

"You didn't really drop a glass, did you?" she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

No, he'd broken one. Because he'd been pissed. Was that what she wanted to hear?

"Bellamy . . . whatever it is, keep it under control," she reminded him. "I don't want any issues."

"You won't have any," he mumbled, not sure how much longer he could keep that promise. He didn't want to lose his job, especially not when his job happened to place him at the forefront of Clarke's job. But he was so sick and tired of hearing people talk about her and look at her like she was just a thing for their pleasure.

He was really glad to get out of there and get home that night. In fact, Anya even let him leave early. She probably wanted him out of there because she could see how close he was to snapping. Fine by him. Getting home at midnight meant he had a little more time to spend with Clarke before they felt like going to bed.

He arrived home to find her curled up on the couch, eyes closed even though she had the lamp and TV on. They fluttered open when she heard him, though, and she said, "Hey."

"Hey." God, she was so fucking cute. "You look comfy."

"I haven't moved in hours," she admitted.

He kicked off his shoes, hung up his jacket, and crossed the living room so he could sit down on the floor, right in front of her. "You get some sleep?" he asked, smoothing out her hair.

"No, I was waiting for you to get home," she said, propping herself up on her forearm. As she did that, though, she looked down, and she saw his hand, which he'd bandaged after finally finding that first-aid kit. "What happened to your hand?" she asked, reaching down for it concernedly.

"Oh, nothing," he said, letting her hold it and take a look at it, even though he didn't want her to worry. "I dropped a glass tonight." It was a little lie, but . . . he didn't think it was necessary to tell her what McCreary had said about her tonight. She already heard that kind of thing enough. "You look tired," he remarked.

"I am," she admitted, putting her head back down again. "And I'm _so_ sore."

"From this morning?" He couldn't help but grin.

"From all of it." She blushed. "I think all the sex finally caught up to me."

"Yeah, we've been pretty busy." These past couple days especially, they'd been doing it every chance they got.

"I enjoyed it, though," she said, sticking her tongue between her teeth as she smiled at him adorably.

"Yeah." It'd been an amazing couple of weeks, that was for sure. He'd gotten a taste of a real, true domestic life with Clarke, and he liked it. Wanted more of it. As soon as possible. "Only two more days like this," he reminded her, "and then Finn comes home."

"I know," she groaned.

He knew it wasn't a topic either one of them really _wanted_ to talk about, but they had to. It was coming up fast. "Have you thought about . . . how you're gonna tell him?" he questioned.

"I mean, I don't wanna spring it on him right when he gets home," she said, "but . . . I kinda have to. I've already drawn it out long enough."

Yeah, she had. He understood it, as much as he could, but it was time to end things. She and Finn didn't belong together, and she wasn't doing either one of them any favors by staying in that relationship.

"I have no idea how he's gonna take it," she said, sounding worried.

"Have you even talked to him these past few days?"

"No." She frowned. "I mean, we're drifting; he knows that. But . . . I don't think he has any idea how far we've drifted."

So it was gonna blindside him then. Great. That wasn't gonna be pretty. But Finn probably wouldn't be too devastated for too long. He'd go back to Raven or find someone new, and meanwhile, Bellamy was gonna make sure he was there for Clarke. Even if she didn't love Finn anymore, she'd still be sad about the whole thing. She'd still feel like crap.

"He's not gonna . . . come at me or anything, is he?" Bellamy asked. "'cause, I mean, I can handle myself in a fight if I have to. But I don't wanna fight him. For your sake." He wanted the whole thing to be as easy on Clarke as possible.

"I don't think he would do that," she said. "But you might still wanna lay low for a couple days."

He rubbed her shoulder and asked her, "Are you gonna lay low with me?"

"Maybe," she said, smiling again.

"Are we movin' in together after all this?"

Her eyes widened a bit, and she looked surprised by the question, even though she had to have given it some thought herself. "You wanna live with me?"

"Well, yeah." It was a no-brainer. "It's been pretty good for three weeks."

"It has," she agreed, propping herself up again.

"I don't care whether it's here or at my place," he said. "I wanna live with you."

She looked so . . . so damn _excited_ to hear him say that. That sparkle in her eyes that even a guy like McCreary could notice . . . he saw it in moments like these, especially.

Giggling, she tried to hook her arms around his neck and lean in for a kiss. But she practically fell off the couch as she did so, yelping, "Ow, ow, ow! Sore, sore," as he scooped her up into his arms.

Lying back, he put her on top of him, willingly being her human pillow as her face hovered near his, her hair falling forward to obscure part of it from his view. He tucked the loose strands behind her ear, wanting to really _see_ her expression when she agreed to it.

"I wanna live with you, too," she told him, sealing the deal with a kiss.

...

Clarke woke up slowly, as she often did, and this time it was because she heard movement in the bathroom. She rolled over onto her back, stretched out in the empty bed, and rubbed her eyes. "Mmm, Bellamy?" she murmured.

"Yeah?" he called from the bathroom. The door was hanging open across the hall.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Shaving."

"Your face?"

"No," he said, "I'm man-scaping."

"Seriously?" He kept things well-groomed down there, but she'd figured he did that in the shower.

"No, I'm shaving my face, Clarke."

"But I like your stubble," she told him. "It tickles when you go down on me."

That got a laugh out of him, followed by, "You're so horny all the time. I love you for that."

She smiled, stretching out a little more. Yeah, when it came to sex, she definitely fancied herself an . . . enthusiast. Being with Bellamy was opening up whole new realms of pleasure she hadn't even known existed. It was _amazing._

He popped out of the bathroom a few seconds later, a towel slung around his waist, shaving cream lathered up on his face. "Good morning," he said, bending down to give her a quick kiss. Some of his shaving cream got on her, so she just laughed and wiped it away as he headed back into the bathroom.

"I could shave your face for you," she offered. That'd be all cute and sexy.

"No, you'd cut me up," he claimed.

"But I shave my legs all the time," she pointed out. She knew how to handle a razor.

"Not the other night. I did it for you."

"Yeah, that was sweet." She rubbed her legs together, thinking back to how gentle he'd been and how sensual that had been in the bathtub. It was kind of weird to think that shaving legs could ever be sexy, but somehow, with Bellamy . . . god, everything was sexy.

Unfortunately, her phone rang out shrilly, interrupting their morning flirtatiousness. When she picked it up, she saw it was Finn calling, and she felt obligated to answer. "Oh, I gotta get this," she groaned, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She headed out into the living room so that Bellamy didn't have to overhear the whole thing. He tried not to mention it, but she got the sense that it sort of pissed him off whenever Finn called.

Yawning, she answered the phone with a simple, "Hey."

"Hey," he said back to her. "You sound tired. You just wake up?"

"Yeah." It wasn't really that late or anything, but she liked sleeping in when she could.

"Man, I haven't even been to bed yet," Finn revealed.

"Oh, really? You must be having a good time then." She pictured him at parties—lots of them, and probably some wild ones—living it up with Cage and this singer they were promoting, and maybe even with some beautiful local women who he'd never be honest enough with her to tell her about.

"I am kinda sad it's almost over," he admitted. "But I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

Her heart sank. As angry as she still was at Finn . . . that didn't stop her from feeling horrible.

"I got a surprise for you," he said, sounding excited.

"A surprise?" she echoed.

"Yeah."

"What is it?" Hopefully it was just a souvenir or something. Not . . . anything else.

"Well, I can't tell you. It wouldn't be a surprise then," he said. "You'll find out."

Her stomach churned a bit with worry about what it _might_ be. Surely Finn wouldn't get her a ring, would he? Not in Mexico. Not now. They were nineteen, and they'd been drifting, and they'd just spent almost a month apart, so . . . no. No, he wouldn't do that.

"Hey, I gotta go," he said suddenly. She heard voices in the background, but she couldn't tell where he was. "I'll talk to you later, alright?"

"Alright," she said, pushing her concerns as far down as they would go. "Bye." She quickly ended the call, set her phone down on the kitchen counter, and shuffled back down the hallway, wanting to pour all her affection and attention onto Bellamy. It was their last full day together before Finn came home, and she was intent on enjoying it.

He'd already finished shaving his face by the time she slipped into the bathroom, but he smirked at her through the mirror, and she couldn't resist just running up to him and jumping onto his back. "Let's spend the day together," she said, looking at their reflection, struck by how cozy and couple-y they looked. Like . . . in a laid-back way. Like they were already living together.

...

Bellamy pretty much let Clarke decide what they would do that day. She knew the city a lot better nowadays, knew where she liked to eat and what she wanted to go do. First, they went to Ace Bar, played around on some of the old arcade games for a while. (She totally kicked his ass, but he liked to claim that he only let her win.) Then they stopped at a food truck, and he bought her a hot dog that ended up being too big for her to eat. It was impossible to avoid the obvious jokes as she tried to fit the whole thing in her mouth, and eventually, she got to laughing so hard about it that she just handed the whole hot dog over to him. He ended up buying her a pretzel at a different food stand instead.

After that, they kind of just roamed and walked, hand-in-hand a lot of the time. It felt good, really good, to be out with her in public, _clearly_ a couple and not giving a fuck what anyone else thought about it. Nobody really paid them any attention, so it wasn't like they were risking getting caught or found out or something. Even if they did . . . it didn't really matter anymore. Finn's days of not knowing were numbered.

They ended up in a park, watching a guy with a guitar sing for tips. His guitar case actually had a lot of money in it, and he was decent. Not the kind of music Bellamy would listen to, but still good, objectively speaking.

Clarke didn't even realize it, but she started singing along with the musician, and when he heard her voice, he asked, "Oh, you sing?"

She kind of stuttered out a response, but it was good enough for him.

"Come here, come here," he said, grabbing her arm, pulling her next to him. "How well do you know your 80s?" he asked.

"Um, well, I wasn't alive," she said, "so . . ."

He began to strum his guitar anyway, and Clarke must have picked up the song right away, because she started nodding her head in time with the beat. "I do know this one," she said.

Bellamy didn't recognize it, so he just stood there with everyone else, watching, waiting for her to sing.

"Cut straight to the chorus," the musician said. He played a few more chords, and then Clarke began singing.

" _We belong to the light_

 _We belong to the thunder_

 _We belong to the sound of the words_

 _We've both fallen under."_

Oh, yeah, he recognized that one. Faintly, but enough to know what kind of song it was, what the lyrics were about. It was a good song, a love song, and her voice suited it.

" _Whatever we deny or embrace_

 _For worse or for better_

 _We belong_

 _We belong, we belong together."_

Whenever she sang, Bellamy sort of . . . got lost in it. She just had this mesmerizing thing. It was the same kind of thing she had when she got up on stage to dance, but not so objectifying. When she sang, people appreciated her talent, not her looks.

Everyone clapped and cheered for her, and she blushed.

"Woo!" the guitar player exclaimed. "Nice job! You got a set of pipes."

"Thanks." She sheepishly tried to slip back into the crowd, but he reached down into his guitar case and grabbed a ten dollar bill, trying to hand it to her. "Here, have it," he said. "I insist."

"No, no, you deserve that," she said, declining. "Thank you, though. Bye." She waved, grabbed Bellamy's hand, and off they went while the guy resumed his playing.

"That was so good, baby," he complimented her. His mind was starting to race with possibilities about how he might be able to steer her onto a music career path. It'd take him time to save up, but maybe if he could get enough money to buy her some time in the recording studio, she could put a demo together, and maybe from there . . .

"My mom loves Pat Benatar," she said.

"Oh, is that who sings that?" He'd been thinking Heart or something. His mom loved Heart.

"Yeah. I know she's no Kenny Lamar or anything-"

 _Kenny?_ Oh, Clarke . . . "Kendrick," he corrected her.

"But she's really good. And that's my mom's favorite song of hers." At first, she looked happy as she thought about that, but then her expression fell just slightly, and she looked a little sad. "She used to walk around the house singing it. She'd sing it to my dad."

 _Oh,_ he thought. _Got it._ Memories of a simpler time and all that. Those could sting. "When we get home, you should sing it to me," he suggested, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. 80s female rock wasn't exactly his genre, but he'd listen to anything Clarke was singing.

"One more stop first," she said, leaning against him, nuzzling her face against his shoulder.

Somehow, he knew they'd end up at the Brooklyn Bridge before they even started heading in that direction. They walked about halfway down it, found a collection of locks, and she took one out of her purse. It was hot pink, and she had with her a black Sharpie to write on it.

"I thought we were gonna do this _after_ you break up with Finn," he reminded her.

She shrugged. "Close enough."

 _Yeah, close enough,_ he thought. That kind of felt more like a formality than anything else at this point. Hopefully Finn would accept it and move on and realize that it wasn't just Clarke who'd cheated on him. He'd played a huge part in it, too. "Why's it pink?" he asked her as she uncapped the marker.

"Why not?" she shot back playfully. She set the lock down on the railing and narrated as she wrote, " _Bellamy and Clarke 4ever._ "

He couldn't even roll his eyes at how cheesy that was. She was like a high school girl doodling in her notebook.

"Aww," she said, holding it up for him to see. "Isn't that cute?"

She'd only filled up the front of the lock, though. If someone flipped it around, the back side was currently just blank. "Here, let me write something," he said, taking it and the marker from her.

"You have such bad handwriting, though," she halfheartedly protested.

He gave her a look. Screw his handwriting. If he was one half of this lock, then he was writing something on it, too. He opted for an all caps—because that was how he wrote, in all caps— _WE BELONG TOGETHER._ It just seemed appropriate to borrow from the song she'd sung today.

"That's perfect," she told him.

They found a good spot for it and hooked it on together, then stepped back to admire how it looked surrounded by all the others. Lots of the other locks were just plain black or silver. As much as he'd questioned the pink, it did make it stand out.

"I love it," she said. She stared at that lock with . . . almost a look of pride on her face. She wasn't ashamed of what they had. She was _proud_ of it.

So was he.

It was too perfect of a moment _not_ to cup her face and kiss her.

Things escalated after that. They barely got home before ripping each other's clothes off. A little afternoon sex never hurt anyone.

"Uh!" she cried out as he sat back, swinging her up into his lap so she could ride him. He kept moving his hips up into her, completely losing himself in the feel of her, of having his hands on her, of being inside her. "Uh . . ." she moaned again, rocking with him, keeping up with the pace he'd set, even though she was already sweat-soaked and still a little sore. "I thought I was gonna sing for you."

"We can do that later," he said breathily, panting for air as they fucked. Sure, he wanted to hear her sing some more, but right now, he just wanted to hear her cum.


	52. Chapter 52

_Chapter 52_

Even though she thought she heard something, Clarke kept sleeping. Or at least she tried to. She was comfy, and it seemed early, and she was in no hurry to wake up. No hurry at all.

A loud _thud_ startled her, and beside her, Bellamy moved, too. She looked to the doorway, and there, having just dropped his overloaded duffle bag onto the floor . . . was Finn. Shell-shocked. Stunned. Unable to look at anything but her and Bellamy, lying naked in bed together.

"Finn?" she yelped, sitting up, holding the sheets to her chest. "Oh my god." Beside her, Bellamy just stayed down, almost as if he were trying to stay out of sight.

Finn cracked a sad smile and muttered, "Surprise," before turning and sulking off.

"Finn!" she yelled after him, scrambling out of bed. She took the sheets with her, fumbling on her way down the hall and out the front door, trying to wrap them around herself as she ran after him. He wasn't even running, but his strides were so long and so fast that she could barely keep up as he stormed down the hall. "Wait!" she cried, horrified. "Please, can we just . . . can we talk about this?"

"What, you wanna _explain?_ " he barked.

"I don't . . ." She doubted she even _could_ explain this, but . . . she could try. "We need to talk!"

He whirled around momentarily, anger in his eyes. "You know, I thought you'd be happy that I caught an earlier flight home." He snorted, shaking his head. "I'm such an idiot." Then he spun to keep walking.

"No, Finn, please, just stop!" she pleaded, reaching for his arm. "Just let me-"

"Get away from me!" he roared, and both his hands shot out to push her shoulders, sending her stumbling back against the wall. She was taken aback by that, by the fact that he'd just _shoved_ her. It'd even hurt a little. But he just stormed on down those stairs, like he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Slowly, she sank down to the floor, not sure whose apartment she was sitting outside, embarrassed that she wasn't even wearing clothes and was covered up with only bedsheets. She cried, probably louder than she should have.

"Clarke . . ." Bellamy said as he finally emerged from their— _her_ apartment. He was fully dressed now, and when he saw her sitting there all crumpled up on the floor, he raced towards her, crashing down beside her. "You okay?" he asked.

She didn't even have to answer that—not that she could've even if she'd wanted to. Clearly she _wasn't_ okay. She was a blubbering mess. And part of her didn't even know _why._ She'd seen Finn with Raven. She shouldn't have felt so bad.

But she did. She felt _horrible._

Bellamy took her into his arms, of course, and held her tightly while she sobbed, rocking her back and forth, whispering, "Shh," and stroking her hair and assuring her that everything would be okay.

Would it, though? She'd made such a mess of things, and she couldn't ignore it any longer. After three weeks of bliss, it was time for the world to come crashing down on her.

...

"Oh my god, this is awful," Clarke fretted, crying as she frantically made the bed. Bellamy wasn't really sure what her intent was there—making the bed didn't cover up the fact that they'd had sex in it. It wasn't going to erase the image of the two of them from Finn's mind. But it was probably just best to let her do whatever she felt like she needed to do right now. If that was making the bed, then so be it.

"This is _not_ how I wanted it to go down," she said, wiping the tears off her cheeks.

Naturally, Bellamy wasn't quite as bothered by it as she was; in fact, part of him just felt relieved, because at least now the guy knew. It was out in the open. No more sneaking around behind his back anymore. But he felt bad that it was so upsetting to _her._ "I thought his flight came in tonight," he said, confused as to why he was back already.

"He said he caught an earlier one," she said, trying to fluff out the pillows before she set them up against the headboard. She nearly tripped over one of his shoes on the floor and threw her hands up in the air. "Look at this," she said, "your _stuff_ is everywhere."

Yeah, he'd made himself at home these past couple weeks. But he'd intended to clear it out before Finn got back. "I'll pack it up, I guess," he said, ducking across the hall into the bathroom to get his razor, shaving cream, tooth brush . . . all that stuff.

"God, why did I ever do this?" she lamented.

He bristled, worried that she might be questioning their relationship. They'd _just_ put a lock on that Brooklyn bridge yesterday. Surely she wasn't backing out or anything.

He forgot about all his bathroom stuff and went back into the bedroom to try to console her. She looked so helpless sitting down on the bed now, her hands in her lap, her head down. "I mean, I don't regret being with you," she said, "but . . . I should've just told him."

He sighed, not able to disagree with that. Yeah, she should have. And he'd known all along that she should have. But it hadn't been his decision; it'd been Clarke's, and she'd probably made the wrong one.

"I should've told him we kissed, and that we had feelings for each other, and that I knew about him and Raven," she went on. "I should've told him everything, and then I should've just broken up with him. And then this never would've happened."

He sat down beside her, pointing out, "Just remember, he cheated on you first."

"Yeah, but then I cheated on him, too. For _two months_ , Bellamy."

"Almost two months," he corrected. Not that it really made a difference.

"I'm guilty here, too," she admitted.

"Well, so am I," he said with a shrug, not willing to let her shoulder the blame for this alone. "I went along with it."

"Yeah, but . . . it's different," she insisted, angling her body towards his. "And you never wanted this. You wanted me to break up with him. I was just . . . a coward." She rolled her eyes as she said that. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't own up to it. But now I have to. I'm a bad person."

"Hey." He had to stop her at that, because it just wasn't true. Cupping her face, he forced her to look at him as he said, "You are _not_ a bad person. In fact, you're the most amazing girl I've ever known."

She shook her head. "You're just saying that."

"You don't have to believe me."

She let out a shaky sigh, her lower lip trembling as she quietly said, "Bellamy, don't take this the wrong way, but can you maybe . . . just stay out of the way today?"

He understood what she meant, but still . . . ouch.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound like a bitch," she apologized, "but . . ."

"No, I get it." He stood up again. "This is something you gotta handle alone."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm fine." He'd only taken one step towards the bathroom again when she grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

"Bellamy," she said, rising to her feet. She hooked her hands into her belt loops, pulling him closer, and gazed up at him with beautiful but tearful eyes. "I love you."

It was good to hear that, even though he knew it. Even though he didn't doubt it. For the time being, her focus was going to be on Finn, and he was going to have to be patient with that. "I love you, too," he told her, planting a kiss on her lips. He'd say that to her as many times as she needed to hear it. Because for the next couple days, she was going to be hearing something very different from Finn. He didn't want her to forget that she was worth loving.

...

Since Clarke had no idea where Finn had gone, she decided to check his workplace first. It seemed unlikely, but it was worth a shot to see if he was there.

When she got to his floor, she didn't find him in his office, but she did find Raven standing in front of a cardboard cutout of various overly-thin models in string bikinis. That Shaw guy was with her, the same one she'd been out on a date with a few weeks ago. They were looking at the cutout but talking to each other, obviously flirting, and as Clarke approached them, she heard Shaw say, "You're prettier than all these girls."

 _So true,_ Clarke thought, but she really had to applaud Raven for being a businesswoman and not just a model.

"Aw, that's sweet," Raven said. "Why are you so sweet?"

"I'm only sweet to you," he claimed.

Clarke felt horrible about interrupting, but she had to, so she cleared her throat to alert them to her presence.

"Clarke," Raven said, giving her a confused look.

"Hey." God, this was awkward. "Did Finn come in?"

"Finn's back?" Raven asked.

"I'll take that as a no then." She spun, ready to leave.

"Hey, wait a minute." Raven darted in front of her, blocking her progress. "What happened?"

Was it that obvious that something had happened? Did she look like _that_ much of a train wreck? "Look . . ." She really didn't feel like explaining it, but she didn't feel like walking around on egg shells around this girl anymore, either. So she decided to just blurt out, "I know what happened between you two," but she made sure she did it quietly enough that the new boyfriend wouldn't overhear.

Raven's whole face fell, and immediately, she looked guilt-stricken. "Clarke, I am _so_ sorry," she apologized quietly but profusely. "He told me he broke up with you. I had feelings for him, but I never would've acted on them if I'd known-"

"It's okay," Clarke assured her. "I mean, it's not _okay_ , but . . . I blame him for that, not you." As far as she was concerned, Raven was a victim of Finn's two-timing, just like she was.

"I felt horrible when I found out he was still . . ."

Clarke nodded, able to sympathize with her more than anything else. "I know."

Raven blinked back tears, shaking her head as though she regretted the whole thing now. "How did you find out?" she questioned. "Did he finally tell you?"

"No." Her answer was probably going to make Raven feel even worse, but she deserved to know the truth. "I saw you two together."

She winced, lowering her head in shame. "Oh god, Clarke . . ."

"It's okay. He just saw me with Bellamy, so . . ." She trailed off, leaving it at that.

Raven lifted her head, a stunned look on her face now as her mind registered that. It wasn't just Finn who was a cheater now. Nope, it was both of them. Raven had suspected it, but this was confirmation.

"If he comes in, could you just tell him I need to talk to him?" she requested, feeling like _nothing_ was going to be okay until they were able to hash all of this out.

"Yeah, sure," Raven replied.

Clarke nodded, grateful to have aired out at least one big elephant in the room. She had nothing against Raven, and hopefully Raven had nothing against her. Hopefully Raven didn't think less of her now that she knew . . . well, now that she knew about her and Bellamy.

After that, she decided to venture somewhere she _really_ didn't want to go, but it seemed like the most logical place that Finn would retreat to: Cage's place. It took her a while to find her way there, because he lived in a different neighborhood, a nicer one like Roan had lived in. She remembered going to his swanky apartment for a couple parties, though, each one more awful than the last, so she eventually got there and knocked loudly on his door. There was music playing inside, probably drowning out the sound of her knocks, so she literally slammed her fist against the door to make herself heard.

When the door finally opened, it wasn't Cage standing on the other side, but a beautiful, dark-haired girl in sexy lingerie.

"Oh my god, am I at the wrong apartment?" Clarke wondered aloud as she glanced at the number next to the door. No, this was Cage's place, for sure, number 667. She recalled thinking that it was interesting how appropriately close to 666 it was.

The girl said something, something Clarke couldn't even understand a word of, because it was in Spanish.

"What?" she asked.

"She said you interrupted us," Cage boomed as he strolled up behind her. "I think."

 _Ew,_ Clarke thought, looking away from him. He looked like a Hugh Hefner wannabe, roaming around with a drink in his hand, wearing a maroon robe and silk boxers. _Yuck._

"Go play, baby," Cage told his . . . escort. Maybe that was what she was. Or maybe she was the singer who they'd been promoting down in Mexico these past three weeks. Hell, she wouldn't even put it past Cage to smuggle some chick he'd met there back to the states. He was such a creep.

He opened the door, allowing her to come inside, while his apparent sex toy flopped down on the couch and got on her phone. Clarke felt all the hairs on the back of her neck raise up when Cage shut the door, because she'd never been over here without Finn. And she didn't want to be.

"So you flew home early, too," she remarked. "Great." That meant he'd be around for all this fallout of her and Finn's break-up, and he'd probably love every second of it.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, a sickening grin on his face.

"Hardly," she muttered. "Is Finn over here?"

Cage held up his arms and looked around. "Does it seem like he's over here?"

No, it seemed like she'd just interrupted him getting a blow job, because there was a bulge in his boxers—not a big one—and just noticing it made her want to puke. "Do you have any idea where he is?" she asked impatiently.

"No." Cage downed the rest of the liquid in his glass and set it down on the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why?" he pressed. "What's going on?"

Even if she'd _wanted_ to talk about it, he would've been the _last_ person she'd tell. "Nothing," she mumbled, already wracking her brain for where to try next. There were a couple restaurants he liked, but other than that . . . she had no idea what Finn actually did for _fun_ around New York City, the places he went, the people he hung out with. She had no idea where he'd be.

The girl on the couch said something in Spanish again, a bit more of a bite to her voice this time. Clarke still didn't understand her, but Cage pretended to. Smirking, he said, "I believe that's Mexican for . . . _get out._ "

 _Gladly,_ she thought, rolling her eyes. This had been a bust, and the last thing she wanted to do was spend any more time there.

She drove around the city aimlessly for hours that day, using some red lights as a chance to shoot him a quick text or even try to call him. But nothing worked. His phone went straight to voicemail, so he must have just shut it off. Knowing him, he'd turn it back on, see all those texts, and just delete them.

She returned home late that afternoon, feeling . . . defeated. This _wasn't_ the day she'd had in mind. This was supposed to have been another good day with Bellamy. A little bittersweet, sure, because they'd both known that he had to get his things together and bring them back to his place. But still . . . it wasn't supposed to be this. It wasn't supposed to have _been_ like this. But Finn had wanted to surprise her and come home early. Of course that'd been his surprise. He'd picked today of all days to be a decently romantic boyfriend.

"Finn?" she called when she walked in the door. It was quiet in there, though, nothing like the TV even on.

Sulking down the hall, she stepped out of her shoes, dropped her purse in the middle of her bedroom floor, and plopped down on the bed. She hated feeling like she'd hurt him. And she hated the fact that she hated that. Why couldn't she just be mad at him?

The answer was palpable, churning in the pits of her stomach, making her feel so, _so_ horrible about herself. It was easy to just blame Finn for the demise of their relationship, but she knew she was at fault, too. And in some ways . . . maybe it was just as much her fault as it was his. It wasn't a pleasant admission, but how could she not dwell on it? For months before she and Bellamy had kissed or admitted their feelings for each other or started up a sexual relationship, their relationship had been developing. Simmering. She'd known all along how close they were becoming, how much she'd come to want him in her life. She'd known, and she hadn't done anything to stop it.

Her phone rang, and the _last_ thing she wanted to do was answer it. For some reason, though—perhaps she was a glutton for punishment—she got up, retrieved her purse off the floor, and brought it over to the bed. Reaching in, she found her phone, checked the screen, and saw that it was her mother calling. Perfect. "What?" she answered shrilly.

"Is that how you answer the phone nowadays?" her mom asked. "Is that a New Yorker thing? Or is that just how you answer the phone when you see that I'm calling?"

Clarke rolled her eyes, already annoyed. "No, it's just been a really hectic day."

"I can relate," her mom empathized. "Between work and wedding-planning . . . I don't have any spare time."

Clarke grunted. "Yeah, a steady job and a marriage on the horizon. Sounds dire."

"Thanks for understanding, Clarke."

She didn't mean to sound so bratty, but . . . really, was her mom going to complain about having good things in her life? "Look, I'm sorry," she reluctantly apologized. "I just . . . I really don't feel like talking right now." As unbelievable as it was, she was actually due at the club tonight, in just a couple of hours. She had to try to get herself feeling spunkier before then.

"Well, that's fine," her mom said, sounding . . . not so surprised or disappointed by that anymore. "I just need your measurements. All the bridesmaids dresses are custom-fitted. I wanna make sure yours is perfect since you're my maid-of-honor, after all."

Oh, yeah. Going back to Kansas and being her mom's maid of honor. She still had that to look forward to. "Sure, I'll send those to you," she muttered.

"As soon as possible, please."

"As soon as I can." Clarke ended the call abruptly, tossing her phone aside, and flopped down on the bed, raking her hands through her hair. She just felt like lying there and crying for a while, not getting up on stage and taking her clothes off.

For some reason, she had it in her mind that a nice, long, hot shower would make everything feel better. But it didn't. She stood beneath that stream of water, getting clean but still feeling dirty, still feeling like shit, still feeling like she'd made a way bigger mess of this than it'd ever needed to be. And when she got out, all she wanted to do was go over to Bellamy's, let him hold her, and believe him when he said that everything was gonna be alright. But Bellamy was working tonight, too, and he was probably already gone.

She didn't _want_ to go to the club, but she had to. So she put herself together and hauled herself there, showing up about half an hour before Niylah was set to take the stage for her big debut. A lot more women had shown up than usual, since the Lesbian Lover buzz had begun to spread. But the majority of the people there were still men, the _same_ men: a mix of the crude, disgusting losers who'd come from Polis and the regulars they were begin to rub off on.

Bellamy was serving drinks, naturally, but he stopped what he was doing when she approached the bar. "Hey," he said. "Anything?"

"No. I've been trying to find him or reach him all day."

"Hmm." Bellamy's brow furrowed. "I mean, I don't like the guy, but I hope he's alright."

"I'm starting to get worried," she admitted. "What if he went out and drank and now he's in a ditch or something?" Finn had been drinking a little more than usual lately, a little too much.

"Clarke, we're in New York City," Bellamy said. "There's, like, one ditch here."

"True." If there'd been an accident, she would have heard about it already. Unless it'd happened out of town. "Where's Anya?" she asked him. "I have to talk to her."

"I think she's backstage."

Groaning, she dragged her feet back there, not in the mood to be anywhere close to all that makeup or any of those costumes or just . . . any of it. She didn't wanna be here right now. She just wanted to go home.

When she walked into the changing room, she was so quiet and Anya was so preoccupied with Niylah that she didn't even notice her. "Oh, look at you," she said, stepping back to survey the sheer rainbow dress she'd dressed her one-time bartender in. "Don't you look beautiful?"

"I always look beautiful," Niylah said, brimming with confidence. "But you did a good job with the outfit."

Anya finally glanced over and noticed her, asking, "What do you think, Clarke? Is she ready to go?"

Niylah struck a few poses, smiling sensually.

"Uh . . ." Even though she'd been the one to teach her a routine, Clarke still couldn't get used to seeing Niylah in this role. "Yeah, she'll do—she'll do great," she stuttered. "Anya, can I talk to you?"

Anya's eyebrows immediately shot upward curiously. "What's going on?" she asked, leaving Niylah to twirl around in her dress and mark through her routine. "Why aren't you getting ready?"

Clarke shoved her hands into her pockets, feeling very small in that moment, very overwhelmed by all the loud music she heard playing out there, and the cigarettes and alcohol she could smell even back here. "I don't think I can dance tonight," she said.

"What?" her boss shrieked. "Clarke . . . I need you to."

"I know. I'm sorry." She hated that feeling of letting someone down. "But I just . . . I can't."

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"Then what's wrong?"

She couldn't explain it, nor did she want to. She just needed Anya to trust her instincts on this. "I've just had a lot going on today, and-"

"We've all had a lot going on today," Anya cut in harshly. "Clarke, if you start flaking out on me, then what kind of example does that set for the other girls?"

 _Example?_ Clarke thought. She was setting examples now?

"You may not have been here as long as they have, but _you're_ the one they aspire to be like," Anya went on, not sounding very sympathetic yet. "You're the one who has to set the standard."

"Anya, I'm telling you, I'm not up for this," Clarke insisted.

"And I'm telling you . . . I need you to be. Please." Anya grabbed her hands, a look of pleading on her face. Clarke had never seen her look quite so desperate before. " _Please,_ " she begged again, more emphatically this time. "I rely on you, Clarke. Those people out there? You're the girl they wanna see."

 _But they wanna see Niylah, too,_ Clarke thought, and someone else would perform after her. It didn't have to just be all on her, did it? That was too much pressure. She hadn't asked for this.

Somehow—she wasn't even sure how . . . she ended up onstage that night. Dressed in very little to begin with, faking her way through a dance to some song about making love on a dance floor. But did any of those guys in the crowd know _anything_ about making love? Because with the way they looked at her and shoved their hands down their pants to jack off to the sight of her, and the things they said to her . . . she doubted it.

She moved through her un-choreographed performance in a bit of a daze, not throwing as many spins or tricks as she normally did, because she just felt so tired. She kept it simple, and she could tell some people were disappointed. They yelled at her to take her clothes off, but . . . she just didn't want to tonight.

As she spun out of a back hook, settling onto the stage with her back to them, she felt like . . . like she just couldn't get back up again. She knew she should stand, maybe even spin _up_ to her feet. But her legs felt wobbly, and her throat felt like it had a lump in it, and the dam of tears in her eyes felt like it was about to burst at any minute.

So she just sat there with her back to them while they urged her on, saying things like, "Come on, you dirty slut," or, "Give it to us, you fucking whore." The fact that "sexy bitch" was actually the least derogatory thing she heard really spoke volumes.

She couldn't take it. Not tonight. Not in light of all the guilt and shame she was already feeling. She started to cry, unable to stop it but still mortified that this was happening up on _stage_ of all places. In front of all these people who didn't really give a damn about her. She couldn't let them see her like this, not when she had a brand to uphold. She couldn't let them see her be so whimpering and weak. She couldn't be weak here.

They booed her as she ran off the stage. Literally _booed_ her. So loudly. But she had to get away from them. Tears poured from her eyes as she escaped back to the relative safety of the dressing room. But really, was even that place safe here? Roan had snuck back there once and done things to her. So even that room felt suffocating.

"Clarke, are you okay?" Niylah asked, immediately rushing to her side.

No. She wasn't.

"What's wrong?" Luna asked, doing the same. She was all dressed up in costume, too, so apparently _she_ was going to be the closing act tonight.

She just continued to cry and shook her head while the crowd continued to boo. A few seconds later, Anya came racing backstage, looking shell-shocked. "What happened?" she gasped.

"We don't know," Niylah said. "She just . . ."

Clarke covered her whole face with her hands, crying harder. She didn't feel she was going to be able to stop. And then . . .

"Clarke?"

She heard Bellamy's voice, so she looked up and over to the doorway, where he stood now, staring at her with worry all over his face.

 _Bellamy._

She ran to him, throwing herself into his arms, needing _him_ right now and nobody else. Nobody else could understand, and nobody else cared as much as he did.

It didn't matter that Anya was watching, or that they must have looked more like a couple than they ever had before. She held onto him for dear life, and his hands wound tightly around her, the only thing in that moment making her feel safe and cared for. He didn't ask questions. He just hugged her. And she never wanted to let him go.

...

All Clarke wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. Maybe she didn't deserve that. Maybe she deserved to be plagued with thoughts and worries all night. But she was _exhausted,_ both physically and emotionally. The day had been so draining, and the night hadn't been any better.

Bellamy drove her home from the club early, sneaking her out the back so she wouldn't have to deal with any complaints or heckling on the way out. She'd stopped crying, at the very least, but she wasn't very talkative. He wasn't, either, but what he _did_ say was comforting. Things like, "It'll be okay," and "Don't worry, Clarke." She wasn't sure whether he was talking about what she'd done at Grounders tonight or the situation with Finn. She was worried about both of them. The crowd had turned on her tonight, really for the first time ever. But she still hadn't heard from Finn, and even though she wasn't in love with him anymore, she still _cared_ about him on a human level. So she was more worried about that whole situation. Everything there was just so in limbo. He knew about her and Bellamy, but he didn't really _know_ anything beyond that. He didn't understand.

When they got to her door, the plan was that she'd go in, see if Finn was around, and if he wasn't, then she'd go over to Bellamy's for the night. But when she inserted her key into the lock, she couldn't even get the door open. Not unusual. It was a bad door. But even when she gave it a shove, which usually worked, it wouldn't budge. It felt like something was blocking it, keeping it shut, because the doorknob wasn't even turning all the way. "It won't open," she said.

"Let me try." Bellamy took the key from her, twisting it both ways as much as he could, then threw his larger body against the door. But even that didn't work. "He's got something jammed up against it," he said.

"So I can't even get in?" What the hell was this? She lived there, too; Finn couldn't just keep her out. She had no problem vacating the premises for the night and giving him space, but there were things she needed in there. Tooth brush. Clothes. Birth control pill. Did he really think he had the right to lock her out?

"Let's try the balcony door," Bellamy suggested, motioning her towards his place instead. "Come on."

As they entered his apartment, she thought about the irony of their current situation. She and Bellamy had met when he'd been standing out in the hallway, locked out by his sort of girlfriend at the time. And now the tables had turned. She was the one who couldn't get in.

They headed out onto his balcony, and he did his thing, carefully climbing over onto her balcony by walking across a narrow ledge. He wasn't even afraid, but Clarke wasn't about to follow him, so she just stood there and waited while he climbed over the railing and then gave her balcony door a good tug. It didn't open, either. "It's locked, too," he said.

She flapped her arms against her sides, pretty exasperated with Finn for all of this. "Now what?"

"I don't know." Bellamy rubbed his forehead, looking pretty tired himself. "Maybe we could call the landlord or . . . the cops."

"The _cops_?" That seemed so . . . drastic. Were they really going to have to resort to that?

Suddenly, the balcony door clicked as it was unlocked from the inside, and it slid open. Out came Finn, slurring, "Yeah, don't do that. That's not necessary."

 _Oh god, he looks horrible,_ Clarke thought. His shirt was just hanging open, and he had a nearly empty bottle in his hand.

"So what, you think you can just break in or something?" Finn challenged Bellamy. He downed the rest of what was in the bottle, then threw it down, causing it to shatter and glass to fly everywhere. Clarke startled, and Bellamy stepped back a bit as a piece of it almost hit him.

"She just wanted inside," he said.

Finn glared at him. "Kinda like you wanted inside her?"

"Finn, stop," Clarke jumped in. Him being drunk and pissed wasn't going to make any of this any easier.

"Look, I don't wanna fight," Bellamy said, holding his hands up in front of himself.

"Well, that's too bad," Finn said, "'cause I wanna fight you." Both of his hands shot outward, pushing Bellamy's chest, and Bellamy stumbled back, falling towards the railing.

"Ah!" he yelled as his side hit the rail hard.

"Finn!" Clarke shrieked. God, she understood that he was hurt, but he was being such a jackass. "Bellamy, are you okay?"

Wincing, he stood up straight again and managed to calmly say, "I'm leaving," as he took two steps away from Finn.

"No, you're not." Finn grabbed his shirt and pulled him back, trying to throw him down, but Bellamy jabbed his elbow backward, pushing Finn away.

"Finn, stop!" Clarke yelled.

Finn didn't stop, though. Even though Bellamy wasn't trying to fight him, Finn was determined to fight Bellamy. He threw a punch, but he was drunk and uncoordinated, and Bellamy was able to lean back to avoid it. Finn did sucker punch his side then, the one that had just hit the railing, which caused Bellamy to howl in pain and double over.

"No, stop!" Clarke cried, feeling like neither one of them was hearing her. "Bellamy!"

With Bellamy in pain, Finn was able to push him down onto the balcony, but he still wasn't able to land a punch. Bellamy kept blocking him, fighting back.

"Oh my god." Clarke frantically began to search through her purse, trying to find her phone so she could call 911.

"Get the hell off me!" Bellamy roared as Finn tried to climb on top of him and pummel him. He must have pushed or kicked him away—Clarke wasn't entirely sure, because it all happened so fast, and she could barely look. But he got Finn off of him and clamored to his feet. Only then did she see the blood dripping from his forehead.

"Oh my god, Bellamy . . ." That looked bad.

He reached up and touched his head, wiping away some of the blood, and left Finn groaning on the balcony as he quickly climbed back over. "Come on," he said, sliding his door open. "Get inside."

"Yeah, go get inside, Bellamy," Finn shouted. "Go _get inside._ "

Clarke felt relieved once she and Bellamy were both off that balcony and he locked the door and pulled the curtain shut over it. Relieved for only a brief second, though, because . . . she was shaking. And her heart was pounding. And Bellamy was still bleeding from the head. "Are you okay?" she asked him, reaching up to push some of his hair back and get a closer look.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You're bleeding." He didn't _look_ fine, so she hurried over to the sink, wet down a kitchen towel, and said brought it back to him, pressing it against his forehead. "Do you need to go to the hospital?" she asked him.

"No, it's just a cut."

Was it really? It looked so bad, though. She lifted the red-stained towel and took a closer look at the injury. He was right. It did just look like a cut, probably from one of the shards of glass. It wasn't even a big cut; it just bled a lot.

"Thank God," she said. It looked worse than it really was. But still . . . Bellamy being hurt at all was bad. He didn't deserve that.

As she continued tending to him, cleaning him up, sounds came from next door. More things breaking. It sounded like he was throwing stuff at the wall.

"That's it," Bellamy said, "we're gettin' outta here." He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the door.

"Wait, where are we gonna go?"

"Let's just get a hotel room tonight." He opened the door and said, "Come on, I don't want you here."

Finn started shouting things next door, so she had to admit . . . she didn't really want to be there, either. So she and Bellamy high-tailed it out of there, headed downstairs, and hopped in the car again. Neither one of them even had anything packed but . . . well, she still hadn't gotten to her stuff, and she doubted Bellamy cared much about anything except getting her somewhere safer right now.

They ended up at a pretty cheap hotel, because neither one of them had enough cash on hand to afford anything nicer. The room smelled bad, the bed was uncomfortable, and the light in the bathroom didn't even work. But it would do for the night.

She sat on the bed, wallowing in her own guilt about all of this while Bellamy took a shower. When he came out, he'd put his boxers and his t-shirt back on, and as he sat down next to her on the bed, he winced.

"You're hurt," she said.

"It's not that bad," he insisted.

"Let me see." She lifted up his shirt, devastated to find a huge purple bruise on his side. "Bellamy . . ." She touched his bruised skin softly, just to see how swollen it was. It was pretty bad. What if he'd broken some ribs or something?

"I used to get hit worse in football," he said, pulling his shirt back down. "I'll be alright."

He kept trying to downplay his pain, probably so she didn't feel bad. But there was no doubt in her mind that she had been the one to cause this, and now she felt even worse than she had this morning. "This is all my fault," she said sadly. "His drinking, your bruises . . . it's because of me."

"No, it's because of him," Bellamy argued. "He cheated on you first, remember?"

"Yeah, but I still cheated on him, too." If she hadn't done that, then the whole thing would be over already. Finn would have moved on, and she and Bellamy would have been able to be an official couple for almost two months now. Finn wouldn't be drunk right now, and Bellamy wouldn't be hurt. Everything would have been so much simpler.

"Hey, listen, I don't want you going back there without me," Bellamy blurted suddenly. "Alright?"

And even now, he was still just trying to look after her. She didn't even feel like she deserved that. "Finn would never hurt me, Bellamy," she assured him. "Not physically."

"Didn't he already shove you out in the hall?" he countered.

She shivered, shifting uncomfortably. Yeah, he had. But that had been right after he'd walked in on them.

"And if he's drinking, there's no telling what he could do," Bellamy went on. "He's so pissed off right now. I don't trust him with you. So I wanna make sure I'm with you, okay?"

She nodded tearfully, appreciative of his protectiveness, even though she didn't think she would need it. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, carefully hugging him, trying not to hurt him even more.


	53. Chapter 53

_Chapter 53_

Clarke woke up earlier than she would have liked. She just couldn't stay asleep, not when her mind was racing. Her dreams had been . . . unpleasant, the kind of dreams where she could just _feel_ herself worrying and actually _wanted_ to wake up.

She looked over beside her at Bellamy, who was lying on his side. Not on his bruised side, obviously. She inched his shirt up to take a look at his bruises again. Still very purple, but the area wasn't any bigger than it had been last night. As long as it started to yellow out in the next couple days and the swelling diminished, then there probably wouldn't be any need to take him to a doctor. It'd still be sore for him, though.

She thought about what he'd said last night, about wanting to make sure he was with her when she went to talk to Finn again. It was so sweet that he wanted to look out for her, but . . . she really didn't think it was necessary. In fact, if he showed up with her, then Finn would just be angry again. Worse, he might even try to fight him again, and even though she didn't doubt that Bellamy could probably kick Finn's ass under normal circumstances, there was no telling if he'd be able to fully defend himself with an injury.

 _I have to go on my own,_ she decided, knowing Bellamy wouldn't agree to it. That left her pretty much just one choice, and she didn't feel particularly good about it. She had to slip out this morning, unbeknownst to him.

Carefully, quietly, she got out of bed, ran her fingers through her hair, and stepped into her shoes. She really wasn't going to bother doing anything to get ready, because she didn't want to run the risk of waking him up. Bellamy was a lighter sleeper than she was, so she felt like her best bet was just to sneak out of there quickly before he even began to stir. She definitely didn't want him just waking up to an empty room, though, so she used the notepad and pen on the hotel desk to jot down a quick note. Nothing fancy. _Going to talk to Finn,_ it said. _Sorry. Don't worry, I'll be alright._ She tore the paper off the notepad and set it down on the pillow she'd just slept on, hoping he wouldn't be too mad when he saw it. He'd probably be more worried than anything else, but . . . if he could reassure her that he'd be alright, then why couldn't she do the same to him?

Purse slung over her shoulder, Clarke quietly slipped out of the room and headed out to the lobby—if it could really even be called that, because it was _such_ a cheap hotel—and was able to catch a cab in pretty much no time. She told the driver to take her to Grounders, because that was where her car was.

Once she had her car back and drove home, Clarke's stomach began to knot up. This was it, _the_ moment, the moment of truth with Finn. Last night had been horrible, frightening, even, because she hated seeing Bellamy become a human punching bag just for her. But this was terrifying in a different sort of way. This was . . . admitting her mistakes. Of which there were many. Out loud. Owning up to them while also confronting the person who had made plenty of mistakes of his own. It wasn't going to be easy.

There was no chair blocking the door this time, barring her from entering her own apartment. When she walked in, there sat Finn at the kitchen counter, looking tired, lost, and depressed. He had two cans of beer in front of him, one of which was open, the other which didn't seem to be.

Wordlessly, he looked over at her.

"Are you gonna fight me?" she challenged right off the bat, glaring at him.

He grunted. "Wish I could, to be honest." He tossed back the rest of what was in the open can and tossed it over his shoulder onto the floor. "Are you alone?" he asked. "Or did BellBoy come with you?"

She rolled her eyes at his . . . his immaturity. "It's just me," she said. "We need to talk."

He laughed angrily. "You know, coming home to find my girlfriend in bed with another man was probably the _highlight_ of my vacation experience."

She looked down at her feet, admittedly ashamed of that. She'd never wanted him to find out that way.

"Here I thought you'd be glad to see me, that I'd surprise you by getting home early." He sighed heavily. "Well, I guess I did, right? You _were_ surprised."

Yeah. She had been.

"Good thing, too, otherwise you probably never would've told me."

"I was gonna tell you," she insisted, taking a few steps towards him, still lingering towards the door, though, not willing to get too close. "I was gonna tell you when you got home. I didn't—I didn't mean for you to walk in and see that."

"So now what?" he spat. "Am I supposed to just un-see it? Am I just supposed to forgive you?"

"No." That wasn't even really what she _wanted._ In fact, the _last_ thing she wanted right now was to go back to the way things were. "No, I don't . . . I don't expect that. But I just want you to let me explain."

"Fine." He grabbed his next can of beer, popped open the tab, and said, "Explain away," before he took a swig of it.

God, it worried her to see him turning to alcohol so much right now. Finn had always enjoyed a beer or two, but this was . . . excessive. "Can you stop drinking first?" she practically begged.

"Nope." His answer was . . . definite.

Well, that sucked, but she was over here now, so whether he was drinking or not . . . it was now or never. "Okay, then," she said, reluctantly starting in. "Bellamy and I . . . we have feelings for each other."

"Well, I pretty much gathered that with the feeling _of_ each other," he snapped.

It wasn't something that was rooted in sex, though, despite how much sex they'd had. He needed to know that. "We're in love," she told him, feeling like that pretty much . . . summed it up.

His eyebrows arched upward, a look of surprise. "Wow," he said, taking a moment to let that sink in. "So this wasn't the first time then, huh? This has been goin' on for a while."

She shifted uncomfortably.

"How long?" he asked. When she didn't answer him right away, he got louder, more demanding, and boomed, " _How long,_ Clarke?"

It was hard to say, since the feelings had begun developing before the physical intimacy had. "We kissed back in January," she informed him.

"January?" He choked out a sad laugh and wheezed, "Oh, this is fucking great," as he took another drink.

"But we didn't . . . we didn't get physical right after that," she assured him, not that it would make him feel any better. "I mean, I tried to not . . . I didn't wanna cheat on you."

"But you did."

Her shoulders slumped. Yeah, she had.

"How long have you been sleeping with him?" Finn demanded. Again, she must not have answered quickly enough, because he sounded very impatient when he yelled, "Come on, just answer the question. You owe me that much."

"For almost two months now," she blurted out. There. There was his answer.

He shook his head in disgust. "Unbelievable."

"Really? _How_ is it so unbelievable, Finn?" she shot back, quickly growing tired of letting him play 100% of the victim in this scenario. "Ever since we moved here, I've spent more time with him than I have with you."

"Because you guys work together."

"No, because he's actually taken an interest in what's going on with me and—and my life."

"I haven't taken an interest?"

"No, half the time it was like you didn't even care about me, and you just _stopped_ trying to be a decent boyfriend altogether," she shouted, letting him have it now. He needed to know that this wasn't something she'd _wanted_ to happen, something she'd planned on. It wasn't just her fault.

"Really? Because I think I've been pretty understanding, Clarke," he claimed. "You say you're gonna be a stripper; I let you."

"No, you _encouraged_ me," she corrected, shocked that he still had no idea that his unwavering support had actually kind of hurt. "You weren't even jealous or anything. And you worked all the time-"

"No, I didn't," he argued. "I've tried to spend time with you lately. You haven't wanted it. I don't even know when the last time we had sex was."

"Oh, because I _so_ owe you sex."

"Well, I guess you've been too busy giving it to Bellamy." He snorted. "Who knows? You probably give it to guys at the club, too."

She bristled, disgusted that he would let himself think that, let alone vocalize it. "How could you say that?" she asked him in disbelief. If he only knew what she'd dealt with at that club, _who_ she'd dealt with and the things she'd felt pressured to do . . .

"I'm pissed, Clarke. I have every right to be pissed."

"And I have every right to be pissed, too!" she screamed. "God, you're sitting here attacking me, making _me_ feel like I'm the only one who did anything wrong here, but we both know that isn't true!"

Either he was dumb, drunk, some combination of the two, or just blind to his own faults, because Finn actually had the audacity to ask, "What do you mean?"

What did she mean? What did she _mean?_ "I _know_ you slept with Raven!" she yelled.

Finally, Finn was . . . silenced. He stared at her like he'd just been caught red-handed, and she imagined that that was what his face would have looked like had she actually pushed open that door to his office and said, "Surprise" while he and Raven basked in _their_ afterglow.

"How'd you find out about that?" he finally asked her. "Did she tell you?"

"No. I saw it for myself."

"When?"

"When it happened!" she screeched. "I saw you guys in your office. I saw you together. And I know what you did to her. You made her think it was over with me. You just used her, too!" If there was anyone who was actually the most innocent in all of this, ironically . . . it was Raven.

"No, I didn't . . . I had feelings for her," he confessed.

"Yeah, and you acted on them!" Even if it was love, which she highly doubted it was, then he should have had the decency to end things with her before pursuing anything new. "I _know_ I had already kissed Bellamy at that point, and I _know_ he and I had been building a relationship before that. I know it." She wasn't going to stand there and argue that she was right, but she also refused to accept all the blame for doing something wrong. "But you don't understand, Finn. I was _so determined_ to stick with you and try to be a good girlfriend that I was willing to try to set aside what I felt for Bellamy so we could make it work. But when I saw you with her . . . what was I supposed to do? I fell out of love with you, okay?"

"Then you should've confronted me about it," he said. "You should've just broke up with me. Why the hell didn't you do that, huh? Because you say you were willing to give up Bellamy, but guess what? I _did_ give up Raven. For you, Clarke!"

"It doesn't matter! You still cheated on me, and then you kept it a secret from me all this time!"

"Yeah, but then you turned around and had an _affair_!" He shot to his feet, clearly fuming now, yelling louder than she'd ever heard him yell before. "I cheated on you _once_. But what you did with Bellamy . . . you did it over and over and over again. You made me look like a fool."

"I wouldn't have slept with Bellamy if you hadn't broken my heart, though," she reminded him.

"Oh, never?" he challenged. "It _never_ would've happened?"

She cringed, because when he put it like that . . . god, she couldn't imagine never giving in to her feelings for Bellamy, never letting herself love him and be with him. But . . . she liked to think that she would have broken up with Finn before sleeping with Bellamy in that scenario.

"Stop trying to make yourself seem like the victim here, Clarke," he snarled.

"I'm not. I'm just saying you're being a total hypocrite if you're gonna sit here and judge me and act like you're _so_ superior."

"I am."

God, she felt repulsed. How could somebody who, just two days ago had _claimed_ to love her now stand in front of her and claim he was better? "No, you're not!" she blasted at him. "I know what I did was wrong, okay, and I am _so_ sorry for it. But you were wrong, too. You broke my heart! We were supposed to . . ." She trailed off as tears started to fall, as she began to feel more worked up. "We were supposed to come here and have this great new life together. But we didn't. It just didn't work. _We_ don't work anymore."

"Right about that," he muttered, reaching for his beer again. "I hope you feel like shit."

She narrowed her eyes at him, hoping he felt that way, too.

"I spent three weeks in Mexico turning down girls who gladly would've gotten with me," he informed her.

"So you want props for keeping it in your pants _this time_?" Ugh, she felt repulsed again. "No, that's not the way it works, Finn! Being a good boyfriend now doesn't make up for being a shitty one earlier."

He took a big chug, then set the can down and folded his arms over his chest. "Is Bellamy a good boyfriend?" he asked.

It was a weird question, but an obvious answer. "Yes."

"Does he make you laugh?"

"Yes." What was he getting at here?

"Does he make you cum?"

"What?" She recoiled a bit, startled by that blunt question. "Finn . . ."

"I'm serious. Does he make you cum?"

That really was none of his business, but since he'd never made her sexual pleasure much of a priority, she had no problem rubbing a little salt in the wound. "More than you do."

He rolled his eyes, as though that answer just _annoyed_ him.

"What? What do you want me to say, Finn? Yes, sex with him is good. Living with him these past three weeks was good. I'm in love with him. More than I was ever in love with you."

He shook his head angrily. "Just rub it in, huh?"

"I'm just trying to be honest." She was under no obligation to be nice to him, sensitive to the feelings of a man who, at various times throughout their stay in New York City, had been _completely_ insensitive to her own.

"Honest, huh? " he echoed. "Now that you got caught, you wanna be honest."

"I was _going_ to tell you."

"I don't fuckin' care. I don't fuckin' care about you anymore, Clarke."

"Fine." She wasn't asking him to care.

"Maybe this is actually the best thing for me," he said, roaming around the kitchen, still looking a little drunk. "I mean, you're pretty much just a whore these days anyway, so . . ."

Oh, that word . . . it cut like a knife, especially given how often she had endure hearing it. "You bastard," she growled. "I don't care how mad you are at me. How can you call me that? That's what guys at the club call me."

"Well, they're right."

She stared at him in disbelief, struggling, in that moment, to remember how and why she'd ever even fallen in love with him. He wasn't the same person he used to be. He wasn't the same guy who had stuck with her and consoled her in the wake of her parents' divorce. He wasn't the same guy who'd been so optimistic about this city that he'd convinced her to tag along with him. "If this is the way you're gonna talk to me," she said, refusing to let any tears fall anymore, "then I'm _glad_ I cheated on you."

His expression didn't change. Not in the slightest. He didn't apologize for calling her that name, because he didn't feel sorry. And he wouldn't. Not with Cage in his ear, cheering him on as he became an even bigger jackass. He wouldn't feel sorry.

Suddenly ,the door swung open, and into the apartment spilled Bellamy. "Clarke, what're you-" He stopped abruptly when he saw that she was talking to Finn.

"Ah, look who it is," Finn said, grabbing what was left of his beer. He held it up in a mock toast pose, then began to chug it.

"Bellamy, you shouldn't be here," she said quietly.

"No, _you_ shouldn't be here," he whispered vehemently. "Look at him."

She did. She looked at him drowning his sorrows, and as much as she hated him . . . it was _so_ sad.

Finn finished his beer and threw that empty can into the living room. "Yeah, look at me," he said. "I'm so pathetic. But what about you, Bellamy?" He took a few steps forward, probably trying to seem menacing, and said, "How's it feel to be fucking my sloppy seconds?"

"Let's get out of here," Bellamy said, ignoring him as he grabbed Clarke's arm and tried to pull her to the door.

"No, I have to figure this out with him," she said, purposefully placing herself between the two of them. Neither one of them would take a swing at the other while she was standing right there.

"Does it bother you, Bellamy?" Finn went on. "Does it bother you I had her first?"

"No, it bothers me that you're an ass," Bellamy shot back.

"I _kicked_ your ass last night."

"I wasn't even trying."

"You want another go round?"

Clarke felt the situation quickly escalating, so she threw her hands up in the air and cut in, "Would you guys just stop?" They were both being so macho, but they were just pissing each other off even more.

Finn smirked. "How about I give you one free punch for every guy she's blown at the club."

"What'd you say?" Bellamy growled, trying to move forward.

Clarke literally had to put her hands on his chest to hold him back. "Finn, you don't even know what the hell you're talking about!" she yelled.

"Oh, I know you're a slut, Clarke. I know that now."

Again, Bellamy tried to lunch forward. "I swear to God, if you ever fucking call her that again . . ."

"What're you gonna do, tough guy?"

"You really wanna find out?"

She pushed one hand against both of their chests, feeling them edging closer and closer to each other. "No, guys, just _stop_! _"_ she told them. "Please." This wasn't getting them anywhere.

"Why," Finn spat, "so you can feel better about yourself, Princess?"

That nickname . . . it sounded so foul and insulting coming out of his mouth now. No one had the right to call her that anymore, except for Bellamy. " _Ugh_!" She was fed up, so she resigned herself to leaving before they'd really gotten to talk about what this breakup meant for the two of them. "Let's just go," she decided. "Let's just go, Bellamy." She grabbed his hand, and he reluctantly followed her as she dragged him out the door.

Finn, of course, poked his head out into the hall and called after them, "Yeah, follow your bitch, Bellamy. Follow your bitch and her precious pussy."

Bellamy dug in his heels, stopping, clenching his free hand into a fist, drawing his mouth tightly together as though it were taking every ounce of his willpower not to go back and hit Finn or at least say something.

"Just come on," she said again, giving his hand a forceful tug. There was no point in making this even worse. She wasn't going to let him get into some knock-down, drag-out fight over her. She was just going to get him out of there.

They got in her Cadillac and drove a familiar route. Both of them seemed content to just go to the club and hang out there for a little while. Not that that was some safe haven or anything, but . . . it wasn't like they had anywhere else to go.

"Did he ever talk to you like that before?" Bellamy asked her.

"No, never." She wiped tears out of the corners of her eyes, wishing he hadn't crossed such a line and spoken to her like that now. It made her worried about him, about the kind of man he was going to become. Even if he was no longer going to be a part of her life, she didn't want Finn to end up like his cousin. The word didn't need two Cages. "I can't even believe that's the same guy who . . . took me to prom and used to flirt with me in between classes." It was so bittersweet to remember _that_ Finn, who, although he may not have been a perfect boyfriend, also hadn't been such a bad guy.

"He doesn't deserve you," Bellamy said simply. But as nice as it was to hear that, Clarke wasn't sure what she deserved anymore, either.

"I just feel so ashamed, Bellamy," she whispered, knowing that the feeling was going to linger, that she _needed_ it to. She couldn't let herself off the hook, even if Finn seemed to be making every effort to do that for himself.

Bellamy so clearly wasn't ashamed of her, though. Came with the territory of loving her, she supposed. He reached over and held her hand, and even though it was just a little gesture of support . . . it did make her feel just slightly better.

When they got to the club, Luna was up on stage, working with Niylah, trying to help her clean up some of her spins. Anya stood below the stage, watching them, but she glanced over her shoulder when Bellamy and Clarke walked in.

"What're you guys doing here?" she asked.

They exchanged a look, and Clarke bleakly answered, "Nowhere else to go." Sure, they had Bellamy's place, but with Finn right next door . . . that just felt weird there right now.

"I need a drink," Bellamy grumbled, shuffling towards the bar. She followed him, flopping down on one of the stools, wishing he'd pour one for her, too.

Anya left Luna and Niylah to their practice and came towards Clarke, studying her curiously. "How are you doing today?" she asked. "Better than last night?"

Clarke couldn't tell whether she was asking because she was genuinely concerned or because she was concerned what one bad Girl Next Door performance may have done for business. "I don't wanna talk about it," she mumbled.

Anya tried a different tactic then and asked, "Bellamy? Anything _you_ wanna talk about?"

"No," he replied as liquid trickled into a glass.

Oh, this was ridiculous, and Clarke was fed up with it. It was so obvious what Anya was doing. She was trying to figure out what was going on between the two of them, and really, since she wasn't a dumb woman, she probably already knew. "You know what? Screw this," Clarke said, flapping her hands against her sides as she stood up. "You already know Bellamy and I are together. If that's a problem for you, I don't really care." She left Anya with an alarmed look in her eyes and Bellamy with a stunned look on his face and headed back to the practice room and flopped down on the couch, where she could hopefully avoid her boss's inevitable inquisition of lecture. If Anya tried to fire Bellamy because of this, then she'd quit, too. She wasn't staying there without him.

A minute or so later, Bellamy joined her in that room, a drink in his hand. He sat down next to her and handed it over, and she couldn't believe that he'd at last poured _her_ a drink. He must have sensed how badly she needed it.

"Finally," she teased, taking a sip. She made a face, because whatever it was was _not_ her thing, and then handed it back to him. "So do you think Anya's freaking out right now?"

"I don't know," he said, flinging his arm around her. "She had to suspect it."

Yeah, and everyone else already knew. She'd begun to feel like it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, so maybe it'd be better to get ahead of it, own up to it now before someone like Finn could stroll in there and spill the beans. "What do we do now?" she wondered aloud, trying not to feel overwhelmed by how drastically things were changing.

"You can stay with me," he offered.

"Right next door to Finn?" She made a face. "That's cozy."

"I don't know, Clarke." He rubbed his forehead, looking stressed.

"No, it's not fair if he gets the apartment," she said. "Every single month, I'm the one who pays rent."

Bellamy sighed heavily. "So we'll have to go talk to him again then."

Talking to Finn didn't seem like something they should attempt to do together again, though. As awful as the conversation with him had been, it'd only escalated when Bellamy had gotten here. " _We_ probably shouldn't," she suggested. "Bellamy, if you're there, it's just gonna make things even worse."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't put it past him to get violent with you right now."

"He won't." Admittedly, she wasn't even sure who this version of Finn was right now, but as big of a jerk as he was being, she still couldn't picture him ever hurting her.

"But even if he doesn't, you should have someone there," Bellamy persisted, "so if he calls you a slut or a bitch again . . ." He cringed as he said the words.

"Bellamy. I get called that every time I'm up on stage these days," she reminded him. "I'm used to it." It wasn't the kind of thing she _loved_ being used to, but . . . girls like her who did this for a living had to develop a pretty thick skin. Going in, she hadn't realized just how thick it would become. "Look, just let me talk to him, okay? You can stand out in the hall. If I feel like I need anything . . ."

"Anything at all," he said.

"Then I'll holler for you."

That got a bit of a smile out of him. "Oh, you'll _holler_?"

"That was very Kansas of me, wasn't it?" She managed to laugh a little, glad that doing such a thing wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility right now. If Bellamy could still smile and she could still laugh in the midst of all this, then everything was going to be fine eventually. "Finn knows," she recapped. "Anya knows. It's us against the world now, Bellamy." She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, grateful that he'd shown up after all. Finn's anger had shaken her, and it was comforting to know she wasn't dealing with it alone.

Bellamy kissed the top of her head and murmured, "You aremy world." But it didn't sound too try-hard or cheesy when he said it. It just sounded . . . true. Completely heartfelt and genuine. She was his world. And he was hers.


	54. Chapter 54

_Chapter 54_

No one disturbed them, so Bellamy and Clarke lay down on that couch in the rehearsal room and took a nap. She lay on top of him, and his legs pretty much went numb from being trapped beneath her, but hell if he cared. He slept lightly, fairly certain he heard Anya walk back there a few times on her way to and from her office. But she didn't say anything, so he didn't even bother to open his eyes. He just rested with his girlfriend, because it was no secret to anyone that she was his girlfriend anymore.

They got up and left that afternoon, but Anya came outside and stopped them as they were getting in the car. "Bellamy," she said. "Can I speak with you?"

He glanced in between her and Clarke, who looked fearful as she slowly sat down in the car. He knew they were both thinking the same thing. Anya only wanted to talk to _him._ That probably meant . . .

 _Shit._ He was getting fired.

He stepped back up onto the sidewalk, walking down to the corner with Anya so that Clarke wouldn't have to overhear the whole conversation. "Look, I know you're not happy about this . . ." he started in.

"I'm not happy," she agreed. "I'm . . . worried."

He frowned. "Why?" Worry was . . . not what he'd been expecting; hell, he'd been bracing himself for anger. "I've been in love with her for a while now. We've been together for a while now. It's not gonna be any different for us at the club. We'll just keep doing the same thing."

Anya shook her head, looking doubtful. "I don't want problems," she said.

"What makes you think we're gonna cause any?" he questioned. "'cause that happened in the past?" He shrugged it off. "Those were different people. That's not me and Clarke."

"You broke a glass the other night, Bellamy," she reminded.

"So what? I broke a glass. I didn't start a fight or anything." He felt like he'd done a pretty damn good job maintaining his temper, not losing his cool, even though he easily could have. With the way those guys talked about Clarke, he _easily_ could have started a riot in that club. "Look, if you're gonna fire me, just get it over with," he told her, wanting to cut this short. There was no point in drawing it out if the end result was already set in stone.

Much to his surprise, Anya revealed, "I'm not gonna fire you."

He frowned, not unhappy with that, but confused.

"I'm bending my rules for you two, Bellamy," she stated. "Don't make me regret it." Arms crossed, spinning on her heel, she headed back down the sidewalk, giving Clarke a bit of a sideways glance before she went back inside the club.

Bellamy stood there dumbfounded, not really sure what the fuck had just happened. How the hell did he still have a job? First the stuff with Roan, now a confessed defiance of Anya's no fraternization policy . . . holy shit.

When he climbed into the car, Clarke looked concerned. "So did you get fired?" she asked, not even beating around the bush.

"No. I still have a job." It wasn't a great job by any means, and he'd been doing it way too long for his liking, but . . . hey, they were still working together.

"Huh," she said. "Then maybe it's not us against the world after all."

 _Maybe not,_ he thought, twisting the key in the ignition to start the car up. Wonders never ceased.

...

Clarke wasn't exactly looking _forward_ to part two of her talk with Finn, but it had to be done, so she figured it was best to just get it out of the way. She and Bellamy did what they had decided on together, had him stay out in the hallway while she went inside to hash it all out.

She wrinkled her nose as she traipsed through her apartment, down the hall to the bedroom. It smelled in there. It was just that strong, obvious smell of alcohol. And some body odor. Finn clearly hadn't showered.

She pushed open the door to the bedroom and found him face down on the mattress, shirtless, one arm dangling off the side of the bed as he slept and snored. Not so attractive as he once had been.

"Finn," she said, nudging the bed with her knee. "Finn, wake up."

"What?" he groaned, struggling to open his eyes. Before he did, he lifted his head up and belched loudly. That stunk, too. "Oh god," he said, holding his head as he turned over onto his back.

"Are you _still_ drunk?"

"No, I think I'm sobering up." With what looked to be a great deal of effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard. "What're you doin' back here?"

God, this felt awkward, seeing him lounging drunkenly in that bed when, for the past three, weeks, she and Bellamy had slept there. She wondered if he'd had time to think about that before he crashed, to think about the fact that he was lying in a bed that she and Bellamy had done so many things in.

"We didn't get to finish talking," she said, determined to actually talk and not start yelling this time.

"Yeah, 'cause your boy-toy showed up." Finn snorted. "Where is he anyway? Is he out in the living room?"

"He's out in the hall." If things got too loud, he'd definitely come running in there, so she had to make sure this conversation was a calmer one. "Look, Finn . . . the past is what it is now. What's done is done. Neither one of us can change what we did." It didn't seem likely that they were going to see eye to eye on what had happened, what with him seemingly unwilling to accept his share of the blame. But that really didn't matter anymore. There were more important things to think about. "We gotta figure out where we go from here."

He yawned and then sarcastically said, "Well, naturally, I'm expecting to be Bellamy's best man when he marries you. And I'll gladly be the godfather to all your dumbass kids."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You sound like a real loser right now, you know that? You look like one, too."

"I don't care," he said. "Just leave me alone, Clarke." He tried to pull the sheets up over his head, but they were tucked in too far down at the bottom of the bed for him to do that.

"I can't," she said. "I live here, too, you know. Two of us, one apartment. Obviously that's not gonna work."

"Go live with Bellamy," he suggested. "Can't wait to hear you guys have sex."

The proximity factor was one thing; but the fairness of it all was another. "I think you need to leave," she told him bluntly.

"What?" he spat. "Are you high, Clarke?"

"No, I'm serious." She'd be standing her ground on this, because she knew she had more of a right to that apartment than he did. "This is more my place than it is yours."

"How do you figure?" he challenged. "I'm the one who found this apartment. Because it was _my_ idea to move out here."

"Yeah, but ever since we've _been_ out here, who's been paying for it? Me," she reminded him. "I've paid the rent every month but the first month."

"Yeah, with your hard-earned stripper bucks," he muttered.

"You sound like Cage."

"Yeah, I do," Finn agreed, not really sounding very bothered by that. "Hey, speaking of him . . . I'm sure he'll let me crash with him for a few days."

"I'm sure he will."

"And then you know what?" He tossed the sheets aside, revealing to Clarke that he was naked, and she looked away. "He can find me a better place than this," he predicted as he got out of bed and pulled on his boxers and a pair of jeans. "He probably would've done that already, if it wasn't for you."

"Oh, yeah, 'cause he's such a prince." It was sad to see how greatly Finn's cousin had worn off on him, but she couldn't say that she was surprised by it. Negative influences and all that.

"He hates you," Finn said as he put on a shirt. "He's always wanted me to break up with you."

"Well, he got his wish." She wasn't really sure who was breaking up with whom here, or if it was just a mutual thing, but it didn't really matter. It was over. "You know, I don't know what was better this year: You not defending me when he called me fat or you not defending me when he insulted my job," she said, wondering if he'd just conveniently blocked out every jackass thing his cousin had said to her.

"Whatever," he said dismissively as he searched around the room for his keys and his wallet. "I don't need this shithole. You and Bellamy can enjoy your little fuck-pad. I'll be back tomorrow for all my stuff."

"Great," she grunted. "Run off to your cousin."

"I will," he said, and then, as if to just put in one parting shot, he added, "At least I still have family who cares about me."

 _God._ That one . . . that hurt. And she hated that it hurt. She hated that it brought tears to her eyes as he stormed out of the bedroom. She hated that it immediately made her wonder if there was some truth to that.

"Fuck her hard tonight, Bellamy!" she heard him shouting as he marched down the hallway outside their apartment.

She blinked the tears away, determined to not let his little family comment bother her. Ultimately, this had been a success. Finn was going to be the one to leave, which meant she got to stay. Which meant that Bellamy could stay with her.

When Bellamy came into the bedroom, he immediately asked her, "You okay?"

"Yeah." She sniffled a bit, but that was it. No other sadness. She wasn't going to let Finn have any kind of victory over her by being sad. "He's gonna be back tomorrow to get his stuff," she informed him, thinking about everything that might entail. "And probably the furniture, 'cause . . . Cage helped him with all of that."

"That's okay," Bellamy said. "Then we can move my stuff in here."

"Yeah." It wasn't like they'd be without a bed or without a couch or anything. Bellamy's apartment was more compact, but he still pretty much had a lot of the same stuff she had here. They could transfer it over. "Is it weird?" she asked him. "You'll be giving up your apartment."

"A little," he replied. "My apartment's so small, though. This is better."

She smiled a bit at the thought of this finally being _their_ apartment. For real. The past three weeks had been nice and everything, but every time Bellamy had gone into the bathroom to shave or brush his teeth, he'd seen Finn's shaving cream in the cabinets, Finn's extra toothbrush on the counter.

Smoothing her hands up his chest to wrap around his neck, she asked, "Do you think we'll be able to move somewhere nicer than this someday?"

"Yeah," he said confidently, wrapping his hands around her waist. "We'll save up. We'll buy a house."

"A _house_?" That seemed like a long way off, but it was nice to think about.

"Well, someday," he said. "Maybe we'll just get a nicer apartment first."

A nicer apartment would be . . . nice. She'd never completely felt at home here. "I'd love a house someday, though," she said, picturing what it would be like. "In a nicer neighborhood."

"We'll get it," he said, but . . . it wasn't that he was just telling her they would. It was more like a promise. Her, Bellamy, and a house. Someday. Someday, they'd be living the American dream.

...

It was a rude awakening the next morning.

"Rise and shine, bitch."

Bellamy woke up pretty quickly, and beside him, Clarke did the same. There was some guy he barely recognized—Finn's cousin-slash-boss or whatever—standing in their bedroom, clad in the nicest-looking suit Bellamy had ever seen. Finn strolled in with him, muttering, "Oh, look, two bitches," when he saw them in bed together.

Bellamy rolled his eyes and sat up, looking over to make sure Clarke was . . . covered up enough. She had clothes on, but only a thin spaghetti strap shirt, so she took a spare pillow and held it to her chest to be a little less exposed.

"Is this what it was like walkin' in on them?" that Cage guy asked.

"Yeah, except they were both naked."

Clarke rolled her eyes and groaned, "Finn, what're you doing here?"

"Getting my stuff," he answered promptly as he pulled open the top dresser drawer. "What do you think?" He began to rifle through it, throwing t-shirts and boxers onto the floor.

"You could've at least called first," she said.

"No can do," Cage said, meandering uncomfortably close to the bed. "We've only got the moving truck for a short window of time. Gotta get my cousin out of here." He looked down at them, tilting his head to the side as he surveyed Bellamy critically. "That guy, huh?"

 _Fuck off,_ Bellamy thought. But if he said something, he was just gonna make things worse.

"Well, I'm not surprised," Cage said. "He looks like the type who's into sluts."

Oh, but how the _hell_ was he supposed to just sit there and not respond to that? It took every ounce of willpower to keep his damn mouth shut. Both his hands clenched into fists, and Clarke had to reach over to touch his arm to keep him calm.

"Uh, you guys are gonna have to get out of that bed," Finn told them as he bent down to collect all the clothes he'd just tossed out onto the floor. "That's mine, too."

"No, let 'em have it," Cage said, surveying the lamp on the nightstand. "I'll get you a king-size. You can fit four girls in that." He yanked the plug out of the wall and grabbed that up. One of many things he and Finn would take out of that place, but Bellamy didn't care. He had a bedside lamp over at his place that would work just fine.

"Is that what you're gonna do now, Finn? Just be a player?" Clarke questioned.

"Oh, he's always been a player," Cage answered for his cousin. "He just had you holding him back."

Clarke shifted uncomfortably, and Bellamy felt bad for her. Finn was being an ass—not shocking, but it still had to sting for her—and from what he'd heard, Cage had _always_ been an ass. He didn't want to be around while they were hauling furniture out. More importantly, he didn't want Clarke around for that. "Are we just gonna sit here while they do this?" he asked her.

She thought about it for a moment as they continued taking things out of the room, then decided, "No."

 _Good,_ he thought. There was a hell of a lot of other stuff they could be doing, stuff that wouldn't make Clarke feel like complete crap.

They ended up going out for breakfast, but it had to be cheap, so it was just McDonald's. Nothing fancy, but it sort of hit the spot for Bellamy. Clarke picked at her Egg McMuffin, though, apparently not satisfied with it, and ended up giving half of it to him.

"Do you think we make a mistake?" she asked as she waited for him to finish eating. "What if he takes something that belongs to me?"

"What would he take?" It wasn't like Finn had any use for Clarke's Harry Potter books or her guitar or anything.

"I don't know," she mumbled, then let out a heavy sigh. She sounded . . . down.

"What?" he asked.

"I was just thinking about . . . my parents." She shook her head. "God, I'm gonna have to tell them we broke up."

"Yeah." Maybe it was just because he and his mom had never been close, but he didn't think that was such a big deal. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Well, I have to tell them soon," she said. "I can't have Finn telling them first. Who knows what else he would tell them since he's so pissed at me?"

He connected the dots and realized what she was talking about. "Oh, you mean . . ."

"The dancing, Bellamy," she confirmed. "What if tells them . . . what I've been doing for money?"

Bellamy finished off the remainder of the breakfast sandwich and used a napkin to wipe his hands off. "You think he would?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past him right now. Just to spite me."

Yeah, it sounded like something Finn would do right now. It was like the guy had just completely shut off whatever feelings he may have once had for Clarke. He was determined to hate her right now, and if he really wanted to make things hard on her, he probably would tell her parents everything. "Well, if they find out, they find out," he said, seeing no way around it. "Right?"

"No, they can't find out," she fretted, shaking her head nervously. "They'd be so disappointed in me."

He didn't know Clarke's parents or anything, but based on what she'd told him about them . . . yeah, they would be. "You could quit," he suggested. That way, even if Finn spilled the beans, she could assure them it was over now.

"No offense," she said, "but we can't live off of what you earn, Bellamy."

"Then you can get another job."

"What, waitressing? Been there, done that." She sighed again, leaning back in her chair, yawning. "No, I'm not gonna do this forever," she assured him. "But if we really are gonna try to save up, then I gotta do it a little while longer."

How much longer, though? He really wanted to know. The longer the Girl Next Door existed, the more he worried she'd never let that girl go.

When they got home around noon, the apartment looked very different. Bellamy didn't think for one second that Finn and Cage had done all that heavy lifting themselves. People must have come over to help them. Because all the big furniture items were gone. The couch, the desk, the TV, the standing lamp in the living room . . . none of it was there anymore. He'd left a plant and the computer chair, but the computer itself was gone. Bellamy knew he'd look into other rooms and find a lot of other stuff gone, too.

"Wow, it's so empty," Clarke said, walking around in circles in the empty living room.

"Like when you first moved in, huh?" He noticed Wilma the mouse poking her head out of her tiny hole in the wall. She looked around a bit, then ducked right back inside.

"Yeah," Clarke said. "Weird."

It was weird for him, too. He'd pretty much gotten used to living there these past three weeks. It looked a lot different without everything in it. "Well, we can move some of my stuff over today," he told her. "Maybe I can call Miller. He can help. And Murphy—no, Murphy won't do any heavy lifting."

"It'll look better once we move your stuff over," Clarke said, heading down the hallway. She pushed open the door to the bedroom, and her whole face fell, and she choked out a sob when she looked at something inside.

"What is it?" he asked, rushing towards her.

She ran into the room.

"Clarke . . ." He stopped in the doorway just as she fell to the floor at the foot of the bed, picking up pieces of broken wood in her hands. It was her guitar. Or . . . what was left of her guitar. It'd been smashed.

 _Oh, no,_ he thought, watching her helplessly as she cried. Of all the things Finn could have destroyed, he'd chosen that?

"My dad gave me this guitar," she whimpered as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Why would he do this?"

Bellamy had a lot of answers to that question, ranging from 'because he's a loser' to 'because he finally realizes he doesn't deserve you.' But he doubted any one of his answers would make her feel any better. So he just went in and sat down beside her, rubbing his hand up and down her back, already thinking about how he could make this up to her.

He ended up venturing to a guitar shop the next day with Miller, who managed to fit the errand in in between classes.

"Which one do I get?" Bellamy asked him, overwhelmed by all the choices. They mostly all looked the same to him, but he supposed some brands were better than others.

"You're asking me?" Miller spat.

"Well, yeah, you used to play, right?"

"Back in middle school."

Well, that meant he had more musical experience than Bellamy had, so he was Bellamy's best resource. "Which one then?" he pressed.

"I don't know, they're probably all about the same."

Bellamy picked one up off the wall and looked it over, as if he even knew what to be looking for. "How much is this?" he asked one of the workers walking past.

"Five-hundred."

"Five . . ." Astonished, he put that guitar back, not able to spend that much money. "Shit, I can't afford that."

"We've got some cheaper ones over there," the worker informed him, motioning to some guitars that were a lighter shade but otherwise looked pretty much the same.

"What's cheap?" Bellamy inquired.

"One-fifty, two-hundred."

That was _cheap?_ No, that was two weeks of groceries, at least.

"You got money lyin' around for this, man?" Miller asked.

"No." He wasn't going to let that deter him, though, so he wandered over to the 'cheap' guitars to see if one of them might work.

"Should you spend money if you don't have it?" Miller asked, hands in his pockets as he loitered behind him.

"Probably not, but . . . I'm not gonna let Clarke be without a guitar," he decided. "She likes to sing. She's good at it." He supposed there was a different way to go about this, like taking Finn to court for destroying her property or something, but that'd be long and drawn-out and possibly end up costing even _more_ money than a simple new guitar would.

"You know what you should do then? Buy her some time at a recording studio," Miller suggested.

Bellamy gave him a look. Did people actually do that?

"I'm serious. She could put together a demo, send it out to all the record labels. And with her looking the way she dos, you never know what it could lead to."

Bellamy thought about that, imagined what would happen if some big-wig record exec heard her singing and liked it, decided to sign her to a label and cut an album. He knew the chances of success in the music industry were slim, but Clarke had a good voice. If she could make it as a musician, she wouldn't have to dance anymore.

...

The bathroom needed to be cleaned, the floor scrubbed and everything, but that was pretty hard to do with such minimal supplies. Clarke crawled around on her hands and knees, using some generic cleaner and one of those obnoxious but effective Scrub Daddy sponges to try to get the job done. She'd really wanted to have some lunch made by the time Bellamy got home from his audition, but she just hadn't gotten around to that yet.

"Hey, Clarke," he said when he walked in the door. "Clarke?"

"In the bathroom," she called. "Not going to the bathroom, though." They'd only been together for a couple months. They weren't at that point in the relationship where she could use the restroom in front of him yet.

When he saw her hard at work on the floor, he sputtered, "What—what're you doing?"

She stopped scrubbing long enough to deadpan, "Practicing for the role of Cinderella." That was honestly who she felt like right now. "No, for some reason, Finn decided to take all the cleaning supplies with him. Why? I don't know, since he never actually cleaned. But lo and behold, here I am, making do with what I've got." This was only temporary. She'd go buy another mop tomorrow. And a broom. And a dustpan. And . . . everything, really.

"I've got something for you," Bellamy said, holding out his hand. "Come on."

Her heart leapt at the prospect of a surprise, so she put the sponge down, grabbed his hand, and let him help her to her feet.

"Okay, close your eyes," he said as he led her out into the hallway.

She did as he said, trusting him to guide her so she didn't trip or run into a wall or something. "What is this?" she asked him.

"You'll see. Keep 'em closed."

Had he brought home lunch? She didn't smell anything.

"Alright, and . . . open your eyes."

When her eye lids snapped open, she caught sight of the most amazing thing sitting on her living room floor, propped up against the couch they'd hauled over last night: a new guitar. "Bellamy!" she exclaimed, her mouth dropping open. "You got me a new guitar?" She scurried over to it, picked it up, and immediately gave it a strum. It sounded good.

"It's probably not as nice as your last one," he said, "but . . . hopefully it'll do."

"Oh my god. Thank you." She played a few chords, realizing how _out_ of tune her old guitar had been. And all she wanted to do was just sit down and play a whole bunch of songs. Some Taylor Swift, yes, because that was still her thing. But other stuff, too. Rock songs, maybe even one of Bellamy's rap songs. She could do a cool acoustic cover or two. "But wait a minute, how much did this cost?" she asked, worrying already that he'd spent too much.

"About two-hundred," he replied.

That was . . . pretty standard. But there was so much other stuff they could have spent that two hundred dollars on. Necessities like the electric bill or utilities.

"It's okay," he said. "We can afford that."

She figured they could, but still . . . "We're supposed to be saving," she reminded him.

"I know, but . . . this is worth it."

"It is," she agreed, not able to fight him on it. She _needed_ a guitar. If he hadn't gone out and gotten her one, she probably would have bought one for herself. "Thank you," she said again, kissing his cheek this time.

"That's not all," he said. "There's this recording studio I checked out today."

Her mind immediately started to turn. _Recording studio?_

"They're all booked up for April, but they said they've got some openings for May."

"Openings?" What was he talking about? She didn't belong in a studio. She just sang for fun.

"Yeah. Time that we could buy for you to go in and . . . you know, record a demo," he went on.

"A demo," she processed. "My own song?" She wasn't a songwriter. She didn't really have any songs to record.

"Or you could do a cover of something. That'd be quicker," he said. "You could still send that out to record labels, see what happens."

All she could think of was that _Coyote Ugly_ movie and how tough it had been for that girl to even begin to break into the business. "Bellamy, I don't . . . I don't know what to say," she said, a bit overwhelmed by the idea.

"Say you're excited." _He_ looked excited for her.

She didn't want to drag him down with realism, but she felt like they couldn't afford— _literally_ couldn't afford—to go spinning off into flights of fancy, either. "I would be, but . . . how much does something like that cost?" she asked, conjuring up a pretty big number in her mind.

"Well, we can negotiate on the rate," he said, probably as a way of dodging the question. "I mean, it's not cheap, but if it leads to something, it'd be worth it."

"And if it doesn't lead to something?" she countered. "Then we're just out, like, a thousand dollars?" Even though she made money as a stripper, it all ended up going away. The cost of living in this city was extremely high. "Bellamy, I love you for wanting this for me, but . . ."

"But what? You weren't afraid to take a chance when you came here. Why are you afraid to take a chance now?"

"I'm not," she insisted.

"Yes, you are. And this could be your ticket out of that club once and for all."

It all came back to that for him, didn't it? He just wanted her out of there. "Bellamy, you're just so fixated on me quitting that place . . ."

"Well, can you blame me?"

"No, but . . ." She took a breath, trying to phrase it in a way that wouldn't make him feel bad for trying. "I think you're so desperate to get me out of there that you don't realize what a big gamble we'd be taking. The price of being in a recording studio for just an hour could literally pay our rent for a month. What's more important?"

He flapped his hands against his sides, looking a bit dejected. "I thought you'd be excited," he mumbled. "Guess I was wrong." He turned, sulking towards the hall.

"Bellamy . . ." she said, stopping him before he could get too far.

He turned back around slowly, looking . . . disappointed. Let down.

"Are we arguing?" she asked.

He thought about it for a moment, then shuffled back towards her, admitting, "Kind of. But that's nothing new. We've argued before."

"Yeah, but . . . this is, like, a couple-y argument." The other arguments had been more . . . dramatic. This was the kind of thing lots of people disputed. "We're arguing about money."

He shrugged. "It's gonna happen sometimes. We're both gonna get stressed. Even about the little things."

"Money? You think money's a _little_ thing?"

"Well, yeah."

He sounded so sure about that, that money was a _little thing._ And maybe, in some ways, it was. This was a far cry from arguing about how to handle Roan or how to deal with their feelings for each other. This was . . . totally a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. And in a way, that made it feel okay. "Well, if we're having a couple-y argument, maybe we should make this whole couple thing official," she suggested, looping her arms around his neck as a way of signaling that their little argument . . . it was just over. "Maybe we should get _all_ of your stuff moved in." The apartment would feel less empty if it wasn't . . . well, if it wasn't so empty.

They ended up bringing Harper over for help, and she was all about it. She loved that they were finally dating, that it was all out in the open and she didn't have to keep it a secret or pretend like it wasn't happening anymore. Bellamy practically demanded that Murphy come help, but as predicted, he wasn't willing to do any heavy lifting. He spent most of his time disassembling Bellamy's shower curtain and hooking it up again over in Clarke's bathroom.

As evening settled in and the moving wound down, Bellamy called Miller and Niylah, and they both came by, and Murphy told Emori to come after work. By 9:00, they had a full-on house party going, which hadn't exactly been the plan, but Clarke wasn't opposed to it. Maybe now that she and Bellamy lived together, she could get to know his friend Miller more. And they could totally do some double dates with Murphy and Emori. They all worked a lot, but there had to be a couple nights, like this once, that they all had off.

"Cheers," Murphy said as they all stood around the counter, cans of beer in their hands. (Finn had taken a lot, but he'd forgotten to raid the fridge.) "Cheers to Bellamy and Clarke."

"Bellamy and Clarke," everyone else repeated, and they tapped their cans together in the least elegant toast of all time.

Apparently, Bellamy's resignation to letting her have a drink had been a one-time thing the other day at the club, because just as she was about to do so, he took the can out of her hand. " _Bellamy_!" she yelped as he handed her a Coke instead.

He just smirked, and she couldn't help but kind of find it adorable that he _still_ insisted she not drink, even though she'd had her first beer back at a party her sophomore year of high school. It _was_ against the law and everything, but . . . that wasn't why he did it. He was just . . . just _always_ trying to take care of her.

They played some music off of Niylah's phone and proceeded to dance and just hang out in the living room after that. Well, the girls danced, and the guys kind of just drank and watched. Miller didn't have the same interest in watching their hips swivel and swirl that the other guys did, but Clarke heard him tell Bellamy, "Damn, she really is good," at one point.

She and Niylah did some overtly sexual moves, but she and Harper were definitely the best dancers there, and they could even mark out some of their routines together without a pole. Emori quickly became intimidated and sat back down on the couch. "Okay, since I can't dance, how about I judge . . . who can give me the best lap dance?" She wriggled her eyebrows.

"I was born for this," Niylah declared, immediately jumping onto the other girl's lap.

"Emori, are you bi?" Harper flat-out asked.

"I don't know," Emori said casually, putting her hands on Niylah's thighs as Niylah rolled her hips atop her lap. "Bi-curious maybe."

"Well, I'm bi," Clarke said, plopping down in between Bellamy and Emori to wait her turn. "But I got my guy." She grabbed Bellamy's shirt and pulled him in for a kiss, but they didn't stop at just one. They couldn't.

"Uh-oh. Make-out! Make-out! Make-out!" Murphy chanted, drumming his fist on the coffee table.

God, it felt so nice to just be able to kiss him, openly, in front of people, without worrying about getting caught. All these people had already known anyway, but now, _everyone_ knew, so there was no need to keep it under wraps.

"You guys are so cute together," Harper said as she took her place on Emori's lap to compete with Niylah. "Way cuter than you and Finn."

"I know, right?" Clarke leaned in to Bellamy, not even sure she'd take her turn with the lap dance game now. Emori was cute and everything, and Bellamy would probably think it was hot to see her grinding on another girl, but . . . she sort of wanted to save the lap dancing only for him.

"Thanks, guys," Bellamy said, wrapping his arm around her. "I think we needed this."

They really had. The days since Finn had gotten home had been . . . stressful. Even kind of isolating. But they did have some friends here in this big city. They weren't like her high school friends by any means, but they were still good people.

"Oh, the party's just getting started," Murphy said, getting up. He gently pushed Harper off of his girlfriend and said, "Emori . . . prepare yourself for _my_ lap dance."

Everyone began to laugh as he drunkenly climbed onto her and began mimicking the moves the girls had just did. But he did them so badly and couldn't have been less sexy if he'd tried.

 _This is good,_ Clarke thought, snuggling up to Bellamy even more. _This is really good._ It'd taken a while, but New York City was finally starting to feel more like a home.


	55. Chapter 55

_Chapter 55_

Bellamy was still sound asleep when the phone rang. Not his, but Clarke's. They both reluctantly stirred, neither one of them too eager to wake up. It'd been a late night, and he felt a little bit hungover. Nothing major, but enough to make him want to stay in bed for a while.

She practically crawled on top of him, her hands and arms flapping and nearly hitting him in the face as she clamored for her phone. She groaned when she checked the screen and saw who was calling. "Oh, no."

 _Her mom,_ he figured as she settled back down beside him. _Or her dad._

Apparently, it wasn't either one of them, though, because she answered with an unenthused, "Hi, Mrs. Collins."

 _Collins,_ he registered. _Finn's mom?_

"What?" she said loudly. "I—I can't understand you." She gave him a look and made a drinking motion with her free hand.

Bellamy yawned, resigned to not going back to sleep. He glanced at the bedside clock, noting that they'd probably only gotten about four hours of rest. But it was better than nothing.

"Yeah, we broke up," Clarke went on. He heard some yammering on the other end but couldn't make out anything the other woman was saying. "No, it was _mutual,_ " Clarke adamantly corrected. A slight pause, and then she grunted, "Well, don't believe everything he tells you then." She held the phone away from her ear as Finn's mom continued to ramble. Finally, she cut in and said, "I still can't understand you," again.

So drowning their sorrows seemed to run in the family then. That didn't particularly bode well for Finn.

With a confused look on her face, Clarke ended the call, setting her phone aside. "She just hung up," she said. "And oh, apparently Finn's leaving out the little detail that he cheated on me, too."

"Imagine that." Bellamy wasn't surprised. Finn was that guy who was going to be eternally trapped in high school. The class heartthrob, the quarterback. The pathetic chump who couldn't own up to the fact that he wasn't smart enough or talented enough to actually make something of himself out there in the real world. Although . . . Bellamy supposed he hadn't made much of himself yet, either. And he was gonna be twenty-four in a couple months.

Clarke pulled the covers back up over her arms, turning on her side, looking as if she wanted to cuddle up with him. But she didn't get the chance when her phone vibrated. "Ugh," she groaned, picking it up. She read the text and grumbled, "I think everybody back home knows now." She showed him the message on the screen. "From Maya. ' _Call me when you can.'_ "

Yeah, that sounded ominous enough. If he were her, he would have been tempted to just not call, put it off as long as possible. But Clarke got out of bed, already dialing her friend's number. So he decided to get up, too.

The phone call with Maya ended up being a much longer one than the call with Finn's mom had been. They weren't arguing, exactly, but as Bellamy stood in the kitchen, whipping up some scrambled eggs for breakfast, he gathered that Maya wasn't too pleased with the new development. Clarke began to sound increasingly agitated as the conversation wore on, and finally she got to the point where she simply said, "Look, the bottom line is, Finn and I just aren't those same high school sweethearts we used to be. And really, just the _fact_ that he would drag me on social media should prove that he's not even the same guy he used to be."

Bellamy shook his head. Fuck social media. He'd never gotten into it, thankfully, but it seemed like Finn was tweeting up a storm, and posting rants on Instagram about what a horrible girlfriend Clarke had been.

"It's great that you and Jasper have stayed together this year," Clarke went on, "but Finn and I just . . . grew apart."

Bellamy snorted as he moved the eggs around in the frying pan and turned the heat level down a notch. Yeah, they'd grown apart because Finn was an ass, because he'd never treated her the way she deserved to be treated.

"Yes, I am dating 'that Bellamy guy' now," Clarke said. "We love each other."

He shot a smile over his shoulder at her, happy to hear her say that with such certainty and confidence.

"Just try to understand, okay?" she practically pleaded. There was a slight pause, and then she said, "Okay, bye," and quickly ended the call.

"Does she understand?" he asked doubtfully, scooping a plentiful helping of eggs onto a paper plate.

"Not really," she said, leaving her phone behind as she came to stand next to him. "It's nothing against you or anything, but . . . she's just used to me being with Finn. Everybody back home is."

He handed the plate to her, hoping he hadn't scrambled the eggs _too_ much. "Why didn't you tell her he cheated on you?"

She shrugged, using her fingers to pick up a bite. "I don't know. Thought I'd give him time to own up to it with his parents first." She sighed, setting the plate aside, which either meant she wasn't hungry or he'd fucked up breakfast. "Is that stupid? He's being an ass to me. Maybe I should just be an ass to him."

He shrugged. "If you want." He really didn't see a problem with it either way.

Once _again,_ her phone rang, but this time, she made no effort to go retrieve it from the couch and answer it. "Oh, what now?" she groaned.

"Probably your parents," he assumed. If word was getting around, it was only a matter of time until they called her about it, too.

"Nope. Not taking that one then," she said decisively as the phone continued to ring.

"Are they gonna be pissed?"

"Probably."

He frowned. "Even when you tell them he cheated on you?"

She rubbed her forehead, looking stressed. "I don't know. I think they liked the thought of me having Finn out here, of not being alone."

"Tell 'em you're not alone then," he suggested, wrapping his arms around her waist. "You've got me."

She smiled a bit, but then reminded him, "They don't even know you."

"When am I gonna meet 'em?" He'd never actually met a girl's parents before. The girls he'd hooked up with back in high school didn't count since he'd known most of the people in that town his whole life.

"Well, when I am I gonna meet your mom?" she countered.

"I don't know." He hadn't thought about that. Flying his mom out to New York would cost him money, but going home to see her was going to cost him time off work. He really couldn't afford either one.

"See? Neither one of us is all that eager to bring our parents into the mix," she pointed out.

Truth be told . . . he wasn't. He loved his mom, despite her many faults, but her routines were essential to her sobriety. Taking her out of her usual lifestyle, even if just for a few days, might throw her off. "Let them know I exist, though," he told her, figuring her parents might care a little more about a new relationship than his mom would. "And tell them they don't have to worry, 'cause I'll take better care of you than Finn ever did."

She smoothed her hands up his chest, her fingers toying with the collar of his t-shirt. "And tell your mom I'll take care of you."

He shook his head, smirking. "That just sounds dirty."

"I can take care of you right now," she whispered, seeking out his lips for a kiss. Their bodies pressed together, clothing very much in the way. For now. But as they continued kissing, he had a feeling their breakfast was going to end up getting very, _very_ cold.

...

Clarke didn't _like_ having to go confront Finn yet again, but . . . what choice did she have? He was completely dragging her name through the mud, and thanks to him, everyone back home seemed to be under the impression that she had become a lying, cheating slut since graduating high school. Plus . . . she needed to make sure he didn't run his mouth about other things.

She waited until Bellamy headed out for an audition to go see Finn. He was in the middle of a photo shoot, or perhaps at the end of it, because the swimsuit-clad, leggy model looked uninspired, and Raven was sitting behind the computer, not saying anything, but yawning as though she'd been there for a while that day.

"Yeah, turn around," Finn said as he snapped the photos. "Show me that ass."

Clarke made a face. Since when did Finn talk to the girls he photographed that way? Cage must have been rubbing off on him even more. "She barely even has one," Clarke muttered, sidling up beside him.

He looked up from the camera, rolled his eyes at her, and then snapped a few more pictures of the frail model. "I think we got the shot," he said. "Raven?"

She just nodded mutely, barely even acknowledging him.

"That's a wrap, everybody," he proclaimed, neglecting to even compliment the model as she walked off set. "What the hell are you doin' here?" he asked Clarke impatiently as he clicked through the photos on his camera.

"Well, I was bombarded with phone calls this morning," she explained. "Seems you decided to tell everyone we broke up."

"Yeah," he admitted. "You got a problem with that?"

She had a lot of problems with the way he was acting right now, the things he was doing and saying, but that was too long of a list to rattle off. "I just wondered why you're making yourself seem blameless," she said.

"Because I feel like blaming you," he said with an uncaring shrug. "Simple enough."

Clarke stared at him incredulously, amazed that he could be such a coward. Most guys would at least man up and own their mistakes. Wouldn't they? Even her dad had confessed the truth of everything after he'd gotten caught. Why couldn't Finn just do the same?

As angry as she was with him, she told herself to stay calm so she could get to the point of why she was here. "What else have you told people?" she questioned.

He made a face. "What do you mean? I told 'em you've been fuckin' another guy. That's it."

"No, I mean . . ." What an ass. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he was just playing dumb. He wanted her to say it and seem all worried and insecure. Which she was, honestly. "Did you tell anyone about . . . my job?"

He smirked. "You still don't want anyone back home knowing you're a stripper, huh?"

She really didn't.

"I could tell people all about that," he bragged, finally setting his camera aside, no longer focused on the photos but instead solely focused on antagonizing her. "I could tell your parents. Thought about it."

"Finn . . . please don't." She hated feeling like she reduced to begging, but . . . if that was what it took . . . "I know you're mad at me, but you know how bad my relationship with them is. I really don't need it getting any worse." Somewhere in there still had to be the guy who had helped her through her parents' divorce. Right? He couldn't just be gone.

Finn thought about it for a moment, then said, "I'll tell you what: I'll let you _buy_ my silence."

"Buy it?" she echoed, not liking the sound of that. Money made everything more complicated than it needed to be. All he needed to do was remember how to be a decent human being and agree _not_ to tell anyone. That was it.

But apparently that wasn't gonna happen. "Three-thousand dollars," he blurted. "Get me three-thousand dollars by tonight, and I won't say anything."

She didn't even want to ask what he was planning on using that money for. Booze, drugs, women . . . it was hard to tell with the downward spiral he had begun to embrace these days. "Finn, I don't just have three-thousand dollars lying around," she said. Rent was due tomorrow, and she'd gotten behind on a couple of bills due to her glorious three weeks of sexual bliss with Bellamy.

"Then you better put on a good show for your fans, make some money," he suggested coldly. "Because if I don't get something out of this, then I'm telling your parents everything they don't wanna hear."

She shivered at the thought, imagining what it would be like to get _that_ kind of phone call from her mother. Or worse, her _dad_. Both of them would be appalled if they knew that their daughter was a stripper. She could call herself a pole-dancer or an exotic dancer all she wanted, but truthfully, it all boiled down to the same thing. She took her clothes off for money. That was how she made it in this city. She got up on stage and let men call her disgusting, horrible things because it _paid_. She wasn't proud of it, necessarily, but . . . they'd make her feel ashamed if they knew, and she didn't feel like she _or_ their relationship could handle that.

 _Three-thousand dollars it is,_ she decided, hating that she felt like she had no choice but to give in to his demands.

She wasn't scheduled to dance that night, but luckily, one of the other girls got sick. So when she got the group text from Anya asking if anyone would fill in, she jumped at the chance. She threw together a costume, told Luna she wanted to dance to a _super_ explicit song, and she got out there and did her thing. Or . . . Ontari's thing, more precisely. She danced differently than she usually did, relieved that Bellamy had gone out with Miller tonight. She would have hated for him to see her being so overtly sexual up there, pinching her nipples and spreading her ass and even briefly touching herself the way she'd once seen Ontari do. She hated it, but the men seemed to like it. They threw cash out at her like confetti. Big bills, too, not just ones and fives.

 _Never again,_ she told herself as she continued to rub her hands all over herself. Never again was she going to willingly sell herself like this. This lewd show was a one-time only thing for the Girl Next Door. She'd go back to her normal dancing after this, where she could be provocative without being so . . . degrading.

Even though she was going to extremes for that money, not everyone seemed to respect that it was, in fact, _her_ money. As the song came to an end, she saw a couple of girls (probably some of Charmaine's porn stars) clamoring for the cash that had fallen at bottom of the stage. The bouncers grabbed them and tried to stop them, but they couldn't be rough with them the way they could with the guys. When the girls shoved money in their tops and in their skirts, it wasn't like they could just reach in and grab it back out.

"Hey, that's mine!" Clarke shouted. "That's _my_ money!"

No one seemed to care. In fact, more and more people came forward, collecting the very thing she'd just worked for.

"Stop it!" she yelled at them. Shooting a desperate glance towards the back of the club, she yelped, "Anya!"

Her boss was already approaching, attempting to break up the commotion. "Throw them out!" she was telling the bouncers. "Anyone who steals any money is out of here!"

It wasn't a deterrent, though. They'd already seen her dance, so why not just take her money? Too many people, men and women alike, started collecting it, and there weren't enough people to try to put a stop to it. Clarke quickly scooped up as much as she could, but she didn't have any clothing on, so where could she even put it? Niylah came out from backstage and tried to help her, but it was no use. Clarke felt like she was watching all her hard-earned money just disappear right in front of her eyes. Their new clientele didn't exactly pay them the best anyway, so every single dollar was precious.

She was so upset afterward that she called Bellamy and told him what was going on. Yes, she'd agreed to buy Finn's silence. Yes, she'd come to work tonight without telling him just because she'd known she was going to have to push the envelope with what she was doing up there. He didn't seem thrilled, but he didn't sound judgmental, either. He left Miller's place and came to get her immediately. They got into her car and drove to Cage's apartment, because she just assumed that was where Finn would be tonight. It wasn't like he had anyone else to stay with.

"Fifteen-hundred," she said dejectedly as she finished counting through her cash. That was pathetic. Fifteen-hundred dollars was what amateur strippers made on slow nights. She'd gone above and beyond the call of duty up there on that stage tonight, and it'd made her feel so _dirty._ And what did she have to show for it? Barely even over a thousand dollars. Half of what Finn had asked for.

"Let me see what I got," Bellamy said, taking out his wallet when he pulled up to a red light. He opened it up and pulled out . . . a ten dollar bill. That wasn't going to help them.

"Great. I'm screwed," she mumbled. Finn was going to tell her parents everything, and then he was going to tell everyone _else_ back in Arkadia everything. Every person she'd grown up with was going to know what she was doing now, and everyone was going to talk. Even her friends, Maya and Jasper and Monty . . . even they would talk about it.

"Why are you paying him anyway?" Bellamy questioned, coasting through the intersection when the light turned green. "You didn't pay Roan when he wanted money."

"Because Roan didn't have a leg to stand on," she reminded him. If the rumors were true, Roan was looking at a nice long year in a Boston penitentiary for sexual assault. "But Finn could tell my parents everything. And it'd be the truth. Do you have any better ideas?"

He didn't say anything, which must have meant that he didn't. Unfortunately. So the fifteen-hundred dollars was just going to have to be enough then. Either that or he'd have to give her a few more days to make the rest of the money.

When they got to Cage's place, Clarke heard music all the way down the hall. It didn't sound like a party, though. Just a guy playing his music obnoxiously loudly, the way someone like Cage would do. She wasn't even sure he heard her knock on the door, so it took Bellamy reaching around her and pounding on the door to garner a response.

"Come in!" Cage yelled.

Clarke pushed open the door, surprised that it was just unlocked. She was greeted first by the overwhelming smell of alcohol and pot, and second by the sight of Cage sprawled out on one couch with his pants down around his ankles while two nearly naked girls Clarke recognized from his agency sucked his cock. Finn sat on the other while two model-like girls, including the lanky one from the photo shoot today, did the same to him. It was . . . jarring, to say the least. Especially because the girls didn't even flinch or let up with what they were doing. Either they did this a lot or . . . they just knew how to shut off their feelings or something.

"Oh. I thought you were another girl," Cage said disappointedly, craning his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he received pleasure.

"Oh my god," Clarke whispered, shooting Bellamy a look. They'd pretty much just walked in on an orgy, and she felt disgusted. His hand on the small her back was a slight comfort.

"You brought your bodyguard, huh?" Finn said, grunting and shaking his head. "What about my money?"

Clarke reached into her purse and reluctantly handed over the cash. "This is what I've got," she said, looking away as those girls continued to . . . please him.

He flipped through the bills and remarked, "This doesn't look like three-thousand dollars."

"That's all you asked for?" Cage chuckled, head still back, eyes closed as he reveled in _his_ duo of ladies. "I'd have asked for five."

"It's fifteen-hundred," Clarke informed her ex, eager to just settle it and get out of there. "There were some . . . problems at the club tonight."

"Take it or leave it," Bellamy growled. "She's not giving you more."

Finn couldn't have been deriving too much pleasure out of his two-on-one blowjob, because he was more than able to just carrying on a conversation with them. "Then I'm not promising I'll keep her secret," he said.

She thought about asking him to give her a few more days to make the rest of the money, but . . . she _really_ didn't want another repeat of tonight, getting up there with such desperation that she'd actually understand what it must have felt like to be Ontari a couple months ago. There was only one other approach she could think of, so she went for it. "What if I keep yours?" she asked him. "You don't tell anyone back home what I do at the club, I don't tell anyone what you did with Raven. Or what you're doing now. Or how much you've been drinking. Any of it."

Finn's expression shifted into a more contemplative one, and he grabbed both models by the hair, causing them to stop what they were doing. "You won't tell anyone I cheated on you?" he said.

She sighed heavily, hating that she pretty much either had to sacrifice her integrity or her body to get him to stay silent. "No, I'll let you look like the good guy." She knew everyone back home would still judge her, but hopefully they'd look past Finn's rants about her online and notice that every picture he was posting had alcohol in it, that he was spending all his time at parties with scantily-clad women. Hopefully they'd be able to piece together that he wasn't the good guy they'd once thought him to be, and hopefully her reputation wouldn't suffer too much. Even if it did, though . . . it was fine. She'd much rather her family and friends back home know that she was a cheater than a stripper.

"Works for me," Finn decided. He pressed the heads of the two girls back down, and they resumed their ministrations.

"Let's get outta here," Bellamy suggested quickly, already ushering her towards the door.

"Oh, come on, model-boy," Cage said tauntingly. "I'm sure you used to do this kind of thing all the time."

Clarke rolled her eyes at him—at both of them—and left them to their depraved sexual pursuits, happily leaving with Bellamy.

Unfortunately, they didn't get far. Cage lived in a nice part of the city, of course, but they had to drive back _through_ some unsavory parts of the city to get home. And Clarke's car virtually quit running on the way. Smoke started to rise up from under the hood, a number of lights on the dashboard lit up, and Bellamy had to pull over right away. He got out and looked under the hood, but Clarke suspected she might know just as much about cars as he did, so she got out, too. She peered over his shoulder, quickly concluding that she had no idea what was wrong, and then she proceeded to pace around on the sidewalk while he jiggled things around under the hood, trying to locate the problem.

"Cage is right, you know," Bellamy mumbled. "I did used to hook up with girls like that."

"Yeah, but those were one-night stands. They're hooking up with models and girls who work for them," she pointed out, feeling like the difference was a pretty important one. "Probably sex in exchange for a job. It's disgusting." She glanced around, noting some of the women dressed in heavy makeup and skimpy clothing, just sort of wandering, never really doing or saying much of anything until a car approached them and rolled down the window. "Just like this part of town," she said, shivering. These were prostitutes, definitely. There was literal _prostitution_ going on right around her. She'd seen some hints of it before, but this seemed to be like a hotbed for it or something. They were wandering and men were prowling, and it just made her skin crawl.

"Just stay by the car," Bellamy told her, remaining bent over the underside of the hood.

"Do you have any idea how to fix it?" she asked, still pacing.

"Nope."

She sighed, feeling like it was a long walk back to the club to get his car, one she didn't particularly want to make through this shady neighborhood, even with Bellamy beside her. "Should I call someone?" she asked.

"Who? Finn?"

As much as she hated to admit it, Finn _would_ have probably been able to fix that car. But hell no, she was definitely _not_ calling him. Not that he would have helped her anyway. "No," she said. "Is Miller good with cars?"

"Not really." He raked his hand through his hair, then started to yank on something near where the smoke had been coming out a few minutes ago. Probably something he wasn't supposed to yank on.

"Yo, you need some help?"

Clarke spun around and saw two guys, one older and burlier and one younger and skinnier, strolling towards them. "Yes," she said.

"No, we're fine," Bellamy denied. "I got this."

"No, we need help," Clarke said, grateful that not everyone out there was just roaming around looking for women. "Thank you," she told them.

The bigger guy joined Bellamy in front of the car, asking, "What happened?"

Bellamy looked a little pissed to have to get help from anyone, but he answered anyway. "It just started smoking under the hood."

As he continued to explain what had happened, Clarke started to grow . . . very aware of the other guy, who just seemed to keep moving closer and closer to her. She didn't want to believe he was anything but a good Samaritan until she had no choice.

"Look at you," he said, sliding up behind her. "Sexy." He grabbed her hips and tried to press his groin into her.

"Ew, stop!" she shrieked, trying to shove him away. But his hands held onto her harder. "Bellamy!"

Thankfully, Bellamy didn't hesitate. He yelled, "Get off her!" gave that guy a forceful shove in order to get him away from Clarke, and then threw a punch that sent him stumbling backwards.

"How much she cost, man?" the big guy asked. "I got fifty bucks for a blow-job."

Holding his newly-punched jaw, the skinnier man smirked and added, "Fifty more for anal."

 _Oh my god,_ Clarke thought, feeling like she was about to be sick. These guys thought she was just like the other women out here, a prostitute.

"Get in the car," Bellamy told her. "Lock the door."

"What're you gonna do?"

" _Clarke._ " He gave her a stern look, and she did what he told her to do. She took her phone out of her purse, ready to dial 911 if she had to, if things got out of control here. Bellamy could take the skinny guy, but the other one was so much bigger.

"You think you can just have her, huh?" Bellamy roared, brazen and unafraid as he took a swing at the fat guy's gut. He doubled-over in pain.

"Stay the _fuck_ away from her!" Bellamy yelled. When the skinny guy charged at him, he shot his hands out and shoved him back, practically tossing him onto the sidewalk. "I'll fuckin' kill you if you touch her!"

Clarke was about to press the three numbers, worried that these two creeps might try to retaliate against Bellamy, but much to her relief, she heard sirens down the street. She looked back and saw blue and red flashing lights, and almost as if they were accustomed to it, the two men who'd been causing them problems started to slink away. Not run. That would've been too obvious. They just walked onward, hands in their pockets, heads down, trying to look inconspicuous.

"No, I'm not her pimp; I'm her boyfriend," she heard Bellamy tell the officer. "Those guys are the ones you should be lookin' at."

Clarke couldn't make out everything the cop was saying, but she heard bits and pieces of it. Sounded like he was accusing Bellamy of being just like those other guys, prowling the streets for cheap and illegal sex.

She had to do something. Getting out of the car, she confirmed, "Hey, it's fine. He's my boyfriend. Our car broke down. We just wanna fix it so we can go home."

The officer looked back and forth between the two of them skeptically, but then asked, "You need a ride?" while looking only at her.

"Yeah, that'd be great." Anything to get out of there.

"Not him. Just you."

Bellamy rolled his eyes.

"No," she said, "I'm staying with him." What a lousy cop. First he showed no interest in catching the _actual_ lawbreakers, and then he wanted to leave someone who _wasn't_ breaking the law behind to fend for himself? _Jackass._

"Don't let me see you out here again," the cop said to Bellamy, glaring at him. He got back in his car, and once he'd driven off, the . . . activity around there picked up again. Girls came back out of the shadows and stood on the corners, waiting for someone to approach them.

"Get back in the car, Clarke," Bellamy told her.

She sighed, doing just that while he went back around to the front of it to try to figure out what was wrong. She knew she'd do more harm than good wandering around outside. They didn't need any other losers coming up to them, thinking she was for sale and he was the one selling her.

They got home later, after Bellamy somehow did enough jingling and jangling around underneath the hood to get the thing running without smoking again. It sort of chugged to a stop at every intersection, but they got home in one piece. And she was so relieved. The night had not been a particularly good one.

"Well, you fixed it," she said, flipping on the living room light.

"For now," he said as he kicked off his shoes. "Probably should take it in and have someone else look at it tomorrow."

She nodded, setting her purse down on the couch, bending down to take off her uncomfortable heels. "I'm sorry," she said.

He looked confused. "For what?"

"Tonight." She sighed, disappointed in herself for being so naïve. "I've lived here long enough. I should know better than to assume that anyone in _that_ kind of neighborhood would just wanna help us out." People in this city didn't just do things out of the goodness of their hearts. There was _always_ an ulterior motive.

"It's not your fault," he assured her. "There's just creeps all over the place."

"Yeah, and that cop was stupid for thinking you were one of them." She pouted, still upset that the guy who'd grabbed at her had probably proceeded to pick up a _real_ prostitute that night, without any real consequence. Hopefully his face bruised up at least. That'd be something.

"You're a good boyfriend," she told Bellamy, swaying towards him. "You protected me."

"Tried," he said, averting his eyes sadly. "I always _try._ "

She knew she didn't make it easy sometimes, but he never stopped trying. And she loved him for that. But at the same time, she didn't want to have to rely on him. She was young, sure, but she was fit and feisty, two things that made it very likely that she could also protect herself. "Can you show me how to throw a punch?" she asked him.

"A punch?" he echoed.

"Yeah." She supposed she could always watch YouTube videos or something to get the gist of it, but why not learn from him? He obviously knew how to throw a good one. "I don't wanna always have to rely on you like I did tonight or like I did with Roan," she explained. "I wanna be able to defend myself. So show me."

Bellamy seemed a bit surprised, but he was all for it as he said, "Okay. Get in a stance."

She mimicked how he'd stood tonight when he'd been yelling at those guys, legs apart, shoulders back.

"Stagger your feet," he told her. "Bend your knees. Make a fist."

She folded her fingers in and curled her thumb around them.

"No, that's not right."

"Yes, it is. I was in cheerleading," she reminded him. She knew how to make a fist.

"Tuck your thumb into the side of your fingers," he said, showing her.

She wrinkled her forehead, not used to making that kind of fist. But she did it anyway.

"There, like that," he said. "Now just extend your arm. Push my shoulder."

She did, making sure to not really put any force behind it or hit him.

"Harder," he urged.

His shoulder was solid, all muscled just like the rest of him. It was like pushing against a rock.

"There, that's better," he said. "Lean into it."

She moved her shoulder forward with her hand. "Like that?"

"Yeah. Twist your hips into it, too. Throw your whole weight behind it."

It was sort of like a dance move, so it came pretty naturally to her.

"Okay, now switch to your other hand."

Her other hand definitely wasn't her dominant hand, so she noticed that it felt a little awkward to switch. "I'm not as strong over here," she said.

"So you'd only throw a punch with this hand if you don't have another option then," he said. After letting her give his other shoulder a few pushes with that hand, he said, "Switch back."

She smiled, sort of getting a kick out of just pushing him repeatedly like this. She wasn't putting enough force behind it to hurt him, and his feet hadn't even budged. But still . . . he was basically letting himself be her human punching bag right now, and it was sweet. "You wanna use your second and third knuckles, alright?" he said. "You'll break your hand if you use the other ones. And go for the vulnerable areas."

"What're those?" she asked, halting her arm motion.

"Eyes, nose, throat," he replied. "Groin." He held one hand over his crotch and shook his head.

"You don't want me to kick you in the groin?" she teased, raising her foot as if she were about to do so.

"Not particularly, no," he said, flinching a bit.

"Can I actually try to throw a punch?" she asked eagerly, feeling like she had the hang of the motion.

"Yeah," he said. "Just don't actually hit me."

She took a breath, tucked her thumb back into her fingers, and swung her arm forward. On accident, she hit the side of his face. "Oh, Bellamy!" she whimpered. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he said, holding his cheek. "That hurt."

"I'm really sorry," she apologized again, cringing.

"No, that's good," he said. "It should hurt." He shifted his weight from side to side, licked his lips, and grinned at her eagerly. "Come on," he urged, "what else you got?"

She really wasn't sure, to be honest, but learning how to do this was making her feel strong, stronger than she had tonight. So she was eager to find out what else she could do.

...

The gym. It cost money, but it was worth it to get a little more fighting practice in. Bellamy reminded Clarke that he wasn't some certified self-defense instructor or anything, and she reminded him that it didn't matter, because he was teaching her what she needed to know. And he was even making it fun in the process.

They bounced around a small boxing ring together, her without gloves on her hands but him with holding a punching shield so that she could hit it instead of hitting him. She practiced some of the jabs he'd shown her how to do last night, but they added in other types of hits, too, like the uppercut, which made her feel like Rocky. And not everything involved punching. He got her using her flat hands to pummel the punching shield. The key was to use her _hand,_ not just her fingers. He said she could break someone's nose like that if she hit hard enough.

Since the throat was another vulnerable area, he showed her how to swing her elbow to make some hard contact there, whether she was being attacked from the front or behind. It was all about rotating the hips, so he didn't hesitate to put his hands on her hips and help demonstrate. His touch . . . was electric.

When they were both dripping with sweat and gasping for air, she convinced him to let her practice some kicks to the groin, and luckily, since he had the shield strategically placed, there was no accidents.

She felt like they were full-on sparring by the end of it, like she'd caught on fast and now had enough tricks and tips in her arsenal to fend for herself, if he ever wasn't around and something happened. She felt like a badass, pretty much, especially since he seemed more winded than she did. He had to shake out his hands and his arms, but she felt too energized to stop. Maybe the spar-session was over, but . . . the physical activity didn't have to be.

At home, despite how tired he seemed to be, he didn't hesitate to get naked with her, didn't think twice when she asked him to do her up against the wall. He bent her over right there in the living room and fucked her hard from behind, to the point where she was nearly screaming, because it just felt _so damn good_ and she loved it so damn much. For as long as she could, she held onto the wall, but eventually, she just arched her back, pressed her ass out, and let him press her whole body against the wall as he drilled into her. The perspiration on his body mixed with hers, his guttural grunts and groans joined her symphony of pleasured moans and screams, and the people who lived next door pounded on the wall and shouted at them to shut up.

They didn't.


	56. Chapter 56

_Chapter 56_

"Cheers," Anya said, raising her glass, "to Harper."

"To Harper," everyone echoed, tapping their glasses together. It wasn't a champagne toast or anything. It was whatever people wanted from the bar, so some people had vodka, some whiskey, and Clarke, of course, had her good old club soda.

"Thanks, guys," Harper said, smiling at all of them. "You really didn't have to go all out like this."

"Go all out?" Murphy snorted. "Look around."

True, it wasn't some elaborate party or anything. Just a late night farewell now that everyone else was gone. Most of the Grounders girls had shown up to give Harper her sendoff, as had Bellamy and Murphy. The new bartender, Atom, was there, mostly because they just needed someone to tend the bar, not because he knew Harper personally or anything. A couple of the bouncers had stayed, too, as had the DJ. It seemed like most of the people who knew Harper wanted to be a part of her last hurrah.

"Well, it's still nice," she said, "and I really appreciate it."

"We appreciate you," Anya said. "We're gonna miss you here."

"Yeah, you're a great dancer," Luna added.

Clarke nudged her friend's side and said, "Taught me everything I know." It was sink or swim at a strip club, and without Harper, she definitely would have sunk. It was gonna be weird not having her around, never dancing with her again. Some of the best routines she'd ever done were with the club's resident Beach Babe.

As the drinking and socializing continued, Clarke danced a bit with Harper and the rest of the girls—nothing strenuous or exerting. Just the kind of dancing they'd do if they were regular girls out at a club on Saturday night. Eventually, the other girls either started getting tired or needed a refill of their drinks, though, and Clarke was left alone with Harper. When it was just the two of them, it got . . . kind of sad. Harper was ready to move on from this job, no doubt about that, but Clarke sensed that she wasn't the only one who was going to miss working and performing together.

"So when do you officially graduate?" she asked her friend, swapping drinks with her so she could at least get a small taste of alcohol for the night.

"Next weekend," Harper replied, "but I'm not going to the ceremony."

"Why not?" Clarke realized graduations could be kind of boring, but a _college_ graduation was a pretty big deal.

"Because, I've only got two finals, and they're on Monday. After that, I think I'm kinda ready to just . . . go," Harper explained.

"Go?" Clarke echoed. "Go where?" She didn't know anything about Harper _going_ anywhere. All she knew was that she was graduating. "You're leaving?"

A bittersweet smile found its way to Harper's face. "Yeah."

Clarke felt her chest tighten at the thought. "Are you going back to Jersey?" That wasn't so far. They could still hang out if she went there.

"No. I'm gonna try . . . somewhere new," Harper told her. "New to me, anyway."

Clarke frowned, running through the very short list of possibilities in her mind. "Arkadia?" she guessed. That would _definitely_ be new to Harper.

"Close. Monty and Jasper and Maya are getting a house near K-State's campus this summer," Harper said, and that was all news to Clarke. "Monty wants me to come stay with them."

 _Oh my god,_ Clarke thought, her mind spinning as she pictured her three best friends from high school having their own house. And her best friend from New York going to live with them. "And is that what you want?" she asked, feeling a little bit . . . envious.

"I mean, yeah," Harper said. "I'm crazy about the kid."

"The kid," Clarke echoed, laughing a little. Monty wasn't a kid anymore if he had his girlfriend moving in with him.

"I know he's still got a few years of college left, but . . . he's just amazing," Harper raved, getting this dreamy look in her eyes. "And we've made the long-distance thing work, but now that I'm graduating . . . there's just no reason for the distance anymore. And I mean, what better town than a _college_ town for someone with a physical therapy degree to go try to find work? I'll fit right in there."

She probably would, because Harper was the kind of girl who could fit in anywhere. But still . . . there was _nothing_ like New York City in the Midwest. "Kansas is really different from the east coast, though," she pointed out. "It'll be a big change."

"I know," Harper acknowledged, "but I'm ready for it. I'm tired of the Big Apple anyway. A change of scenery, change of pace . . . might be nice."

Clarke nodded, understanding. She didn't _regret_ leaving home and coming here, but . . . it wasn't everything she'd pictured. It was loud and unnerving and violent. It wasn't just the Statue of Liberty and Empire State Building. There was a lot of bad stuff that went on here. "So I moved here from Kansas, and now you're moving to Kansas from here," she said, trying to wrap her mind around that twist of fate.

"Looks like." Harper smiled sadly.

Clarke downed the rest of her friend's drink and said, "I'm really gonna miss you. You're my best friend."

"Oh, come on," Harper scoffed, "Bellamy's your best friend. We all know that."

"Bellamy's my best friend who I also have sex with," Clarke clarified. "You're like my best _friend_ friend. You've really been there for me this year." It wasn't that she wasn't happy for Harper and Monty, getting to give their relationship a real life; she just . . . selfishly, she'd miss her.

"Don't cry," Harper said. "You'll make me cry, too."

Clarke dabbed at the corners of her eyes, not even aware she'd been crying. God, she didn't mean to make Harper feel bad for leaving. The girl had to do what was best for her.

"But hey, I'll be at your old stomping grounds. Living with your friends."

Were they her friends anymore, though? Clarke wasn't sure. They talked and texted once in a while, but she hadn't seen them since they'd come to visit months ago, and she had a feeling the summer was only going to exacerbate the growing gap between them. "Yeah, but I've kinda grown apart from them this year," she admitted.

"Well, then you'll have to come visit. With Bellamy. We can all hang out," Harper said excitedly. "And your mom's getting married, right? I think Monty wants me to be his date to the wedding, so I'll see you there."

Clarke groaned inwardly. Yeah, that was gonna be a picnic.

"And we have more technology and apps than we can reasonably manage. So we'll be able to stay in touch."

Clarke laughed a little, nodding. Technology did help bridge the gap. "You seem . . . really confident about everything," she noted, glad that Harper didn't seem to have any doubts about her decision. She never did.

"I am confident," Harper affirmed. "About moving, about Monty . . . when you know, you just know. You know?"

Over her friend's shoulder, Clarke caught sight of Bellamy, mulling about with Murphy, both of them clearly tired of being on their feet, yawning, and laughing about something.

"Yeah," she said, letting a comforting reassurance spread through her body, because Bellamy _wasn't_ leaving her. "I know."

...

Even though she was trying to put on a brave front, Bellamy could tell that Clarke was bummed that Harper was going to be leaving in a few short days. So he decided he'd try to keep her mind off of that and jumped at the chance to take her out to lunch with Murphy and Emori. Murphy had been the one to suggest it, which was weird, but Bellamy thought it was a good idea. Without Harper, Clarke was probably going to be feeling kind of lonely. Didn't hurt to remind her that they still had other friends in that city.

"I think we should do this more often," Clarke said as they finished their appetizers and waited for the main course.

"What, hang out?" Murphy said.

"Yeah. Together. The four of us. Like a double date."

Emori grunted, "Murphy doesn't take me on dates."

"That's not true," he said. "There was . . . well, I almost took you to . . ." He trailed off, not coming up with anything. "Hmm."

Bellamy shook his head, although really . . . he probably needed to step up when it came to taking Clarke on dates, too. They'd sort of skipped that phase, though, what with going straight from having an affair to living together.

"Why the sudden urge to double date, Clarke?" Emori asked.

"Because. Harper's moving away, and I need a new female friend," she replied.

Murphy made a face. "Oh, and what am I, chopped liver?"

"Pretty much," Bellamy answered for her, knowing Murphy would just take the teasing in stride.

Emori took the last mozzarella stick off their appetizer plate and broke it open. "Well, I don't know how many date nights we'll be able to have once we . . ." She trailed off, glancing at Murphy, then mumbled, "Never mind."

"What?" Clarke prompted.

Murphy and Emori exchanged another look, and Emori bit her bottom lip nervously. "Should we tell them?" she asked.

"Go for it," was Murphy's response.

Bellamy glanced down at her hand. No ring, so that really only left one possibility . . .

"Turns out we're having a baby," Emori revealed.

"What?" Clarke spat, her mouth dropping open. "Oh my god, congratulations!"

"Thanks. It, uh . . . wasn't planned."

" _Definitely_ wasn't planned," Murphy emphasized, shooting Bellamy a warning look.

He eyed her stomach, not really able to get a good look at it from across the table. "Holy shit, you're pregnant?" he said in astonishment. _Murphy_ of all people was gonna be a dad?

"That's what having a baby means, Bellamy," Emori said. "We didn't tell anyone 'cause we wanted to get through the first trimester. But . . ." She lifted up her shirt, revealing what did indeed look like a small baby bump. "Ta-da."

"Oh, wow," Clarke said, her eyes widening.

"And here you thought she was just getting fat, huh?" Murphy joked, garnering a sharp glare from his baby mama. Quickly, he apologized, "I'm sorry, babe."

"That's crazy," Bellamy said, scratching his eyebrow. "I can't imagine you as a dad."

"Gee, thanks for that vote of confidence," Murphy deadpanned.

"No, I mean . . ." He hadn't meant for it to sound like that. "You'll be a good one, but . . . you're even younger than me."

"I got this," Murphy boasted. "Maybe."

"Yeah, maybe," Emori agreed. "I'm a little freaked out myself."

"Why? You guys are gonna be great parents," Clarke assured them.

"Well, we'll love our kid, of course, but I'm a waitress and he's a bartender," Emori pointed out. "Both of us barely graduated high school, and now we live paycheck to paycheck. It's not exactly an ideal scenario to bring a baby into."

"No, you guys will be fine," Clarke insisted. Tapping his foot beneath the table, she prompted, "Don't you think, Bellamy?"

He knew what he was supposed to do: He was supposed to agree and be all encouraging. But realistically, Emori was right. It wasn't an ideal scenario, not in the slightest. Still, a baby was ultimately still good news considering the fact that Murphy and Emori did love each other, so he said, "Yeah. You'll manage," hoping maybe Anya would give Murphy a raise or something. The guy was gonna need it.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing we're gonna do right," Murphy said, setting his arm on the back of his girlfriend's chair. "We're gonna get married before this little hooligan's born."

Clarke gasped excitedly. "Really?"

"Yeah. Nothing fancy, just gettin' it done at the courthouse," he replied. "But, uh, keep next weekend open, alright? 'cause that's when it's happening."

"Oh my god, already?"

"Yeah, it's just a legal thing," Emori said. "No stress or planning involved. Although I am gonna wear my nicest dress."

Clarke reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "You'll look perfect."

"Wow," Bellamy said, taking it all in. He'd always figured Murphy and Emori would tie the knot someday, but he'd figured it would be when they were in their thirties or something, like they'd be one of those couples who just dated _forever_ and then finally made it official. "A marriage and a baby. That's . . ." He wondered if Murphy _really_ knew how much his life was gonna change, or Emori, for that matter. "Wow. Congrats."

"Thanks," Murphy said.

"Yeah, congrats, you guys," Clarke said.

Emori leaned over, her lips poised for a kiss, and Murphy gave her one. Clarke snuck a look at Bellamy and mouthed, " _Wow_ ," and he just nodded subtly. Yep, so much for double dates. Murphy and Emori had diapers and sleepless nights in their future.

The decision not to have sex that night was sort of a mutual one. Weird, but Bellamy suspected Clarke understood the reasoning for it just as much as he did. Sure, she was on the pill, but they were all out of condoms, and in light of their friends' news, it just seemed wiser not to risk it. Besides, they ended up giving each other massages, which was relaxing and arousing in its own way.

"Do you really think they'll manage?" she asked as she lay with him, curled up in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder and chest.

"Yeah," he said. "Because they love each other." Ultimately, that was the most important ingredient of starting a family. "But it's gonna be hard. I grew up in poverty, Clarke. It sucks."

"Well, we should try to help them," she suggested, tracing her fingers lightly on his chest.

"Yeah, we can try to save up some cash." He doubted either Murphy or Emori would be too proud to turn financial assistance down. Not that he and Clarke were going to be able to assist very much in that regard. They had their own bills to pay.

"And we can babysit for them, too, so they can have . . . alone time," she said, rubbing her legs against his beneath the covers.

"As long as we still get _our_ alone time."

She laughed a little, maneuvering so that she was lying on her stomach, looking down at him. "Are we gonna have babies someday?" she asked suddenly.

"Whoa, Clarke." Now _that_ was one hell of a question. "You went there."

"Sorry, I don't mean to freak you out or anything," she said. "I'm talking about, like . . . in the future."

He nodded, feeling his heart slow back down to normal. "In the future, yeah. Sure." He wouldn't mind giving it a couple more years, especially since she was still so young.

"And are _we_ gonna get married?"

He smiled at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. "We practically already are," he pointed out.

"True," she said.

He realized he hadn't really answered her, but . . . it was a yes. Yes, as long as she didn't get tired of him, they were gonna get married. He didn't ever wanna be with anyone else.

"I'm happy for them," she said. "Excited." She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say more, but then she closed it and sighed.

"But?"

"But . . ." She lowered her head, pressing a quick kiss to his chest. "I want us to have an actual wedding," she said. "And a nice house. And better jobs. All before we ever have a baby."

"Me, too." Nothing against Murphy and Emori's courthouse plan, but he wasn't gonna do that with Clarke. He was gonna give her a ceremony, somehow, even if he had to save up years in advance for it. "I think . . ." he said, forcing himself to be realistic about _how_ he could save up when his acting ambition had pretty much stalled out on him. "I think it's time I give up on the acting dream," he said, resigned but not as sad about it as he'd imagined he would be.

"Give up?" she echoed, frowning. "Why?"

"Because it just hasn't panned out." He was good, but maybe not good enough. It wasn't the end of the world. "I mean, I love it, but . . . there's other stuff I could love doing."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well, I don't wanna be a bartender the rest of my life. Let's put it that way."

"What do you wanna do then?"

"I don't know." He'd never really given it a whole lot of thought. He'd just assumed that he'd get cast in something big someday, but . . . he'd been at this for years now. It was time to stop assuming and start thinking about what else was out there. "I can't really afford college right now, but if I could . . . maybe social work," he pondered.

"Really?"

"Yeah." He'd had a social worker growing up, and even though she hadn't been able to do much to erase the nightmares of his childhood, she'd taken him out for ice cream every other weekend, and looking back . . . those ice cream trips were bright spots in some otherwise dismal childhood memories. "I mean, I'd like to help kids who grow up in crappy situations like I did. Help families." He felt like he'd be doing something worthwhile, probably contributing to a society a lot more than he ever would as a struggling actor. "I know it's pretty much the worst-paying college degree, but . . . seems like it'd be good."

She mulled it over for a moment, then smiled at him. "I could see you doing that."

He'd never really looked into it, but now that the idea was there, now that he'd actually vocalized it . . . he figured there was no harm in getting online and seeing what classes would cost. Maybe a couple years from now, he could have enough money set aside to be able to . . . just get a start on it. "What about you?" he asked her, smoothing his hands up her sides, hiking her t-shirt up a bit as he did so. "When I'm a badass social worker—or football coach, 'cause I'd be good at coaching football—what're you gonna be?"

"Hmm . . . a badass singer," she proposed, crawling on top of him, straddling his waist, keeping her chest close to his. "Or an artist. Or maybe someone who teaches singing or art somehow. I don't know."

Thank God, not one of those options involved taking her clothes off. "Did you take singing lessons?" he inquired.

"Yeah, when I was a kid. And I took guitar lessons. And a little bit of piano."

"You play the piano?" How did he not know that about her?

"Not well. But I can do, like . . . simple songs." She drummed her fingers against his chest, as though she were touching the keys of a piano.

"Huh." Just when he thought he knew everything, he realized he didn't. If Clarke could sing _and_ play multiple instruments, she could definitely teach others to do the same. "We should have a timeline," he said. "A date in mind for when we're gonna be out of that club."

"Definitely in a year from now," she said.

A year? A whole fucking _year?_ No, he didn't want to think about staying there that long. "Sooner than that, I hope," he said.

"Six months from now then?" she suggested.

It still seemed like a long time, but . . . hell, six months ago, they hadn't even kissed yet. And the time between then and now had flown by. "Six months," he said. Half a year. Hopefully Grounders didn't get too out of control in half a year.

"That gives us plenty of time to get other stuff lined up," she said.

In the back of his mind, he still wondered if it was maybe _too much_ time. Six more months of being Number One was going to take its toll on her, especially if their clientele remained what it currently was. "You really think you can do six more months in that place?" he said. "Without Harper? There's gonna be even more pressure on you."

"Hey, I'm tough," she said. "I can handle it."

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, trying to keep the worry off his face. But it was there, on the inside, not going anywhere.

 _Six more months._ He sighed heavily.

...

For days, Clarke managed to avoid phone calls with her mom. She erased texts from her the moment she got them, and the one time she _accidentally_ answered the phone, she said, "Wrong number," and quickly ended the call. It was stupid and childish, and she was well aware of that, but the _last_ thing she wanted to do was sit there and endure a lecture from her mom about breaking up with Finn. Especially since her mom didn't even know the full story, and she couldn't tell her.

When it became apparent that her mother was just _not_ going to let up—three calls within one hour Friday morning—she finally just gave in and called her back while Bellamy was in the shower. No need for him to have to overhear all of that.

Her mom talked a mile a minute, which she only ever did when she was pissed. Clarke mainly just let her rant, but it got to the point where it was literally just noise, and she had to interject to stop her. "Mom, would you slow down?" she said, pacing around the living room. "I can't understand a word you're saying."

Her mom sighed frustratedly and spoke slowly and sternly when she asked, "Why. Would you cheat. On Finn?"

 _Because he cheated on me first,_ Clarke thought. Damn, she really hated that she'd agreed to keep that a secret. "It just happened," she answered quietly.

"With who? Who is this other boy you're apparently dating now?"

Clarke rolled her eyes. "He's not a boy, Mom."

"Oh, don't tell me you're dating a girl. This just gets better and better, Clarke."

"I'm not, but if I was, that'd be my prerogative." It actually would have been hilarious to let her mom think that Bellamy was a girl. Hey, it was a unisex name, after all. But Maya and Monty and Jasper already knew who he was, so there was no point in lying about it just to give her mom something else to get worked up about. "No, I meant he's more of a man," she clarified. _Finn_ was a boy, but Bellamy was beyond that.

"How old is he?" her mother interrogated.

"He's . . ." She cringed. ". . . twenty-three."

"Twenty- _three_?"

"Well, he'll be twenty-four soon." That probably didn't make it any better.

"He's five years older than you?!" her mother shrieked.

"More like four when you do the math." It didn't really matter, because she didn't _feel_ young anymore.

"What does someone like that see in a nineteen year-old girl?" her mom spat.

"Um, an adult. Because that's what I am now." She realized her mom didn't know what she'd been up to since moving here, didn't know much of anything about who she was or what kind of life she was living anymore. But she hadn't been a little girl for a _long_ time, not even back in Arkadia. She'd always been mature, and hell, she hadn't even been a virgin since her junior year of high school. She was a woman, and Bellamy was a man, and there was nothing wrong with them being in a relationship together. "Look, I realize you were a Finn fan, but . . . it wasn't working out. And Bellamy and I-"

"Bellamy," her mom cut in. "What kind of name is that?"

"It's just his name, okay? He's . . . he's an amazing guy, and I think you're really gonna like him."

"What does he do?" her mom continued to prod.

"For a living?"

"No, for fun. Yes, for a living, Clarke."

God, she sounded so exasperated. It made it hard to carry on any type of conversation with her. "He's an actor," she said.

"How come I've never seen him in anything?"

"Well . . ." This was going from bad to worse. "He's had some stage parts and smaller parts here and there."

"So he doesn't have a _real_ job then?"

Clarke groaned, reluctantly revealing, "He's a bartender."

Her mother grunted. "Lovely."

"What's wrong with that?" The world needed bartenders, just like it needed mailmen and supermarket clerks and . . . there wasn't anything wrong with his job.

"It's just . . . first Monty's dating a stripper, now you're dating a bartender," she grumbled unhappily. "Seems like low standards to me."

Clarke's stomach clenched. _Low standards?_ Bartending and . . . and stripping? Her mom had no idea that Harper wasn't the only stripper Monty knew, but . . . it just hurt to hear her say that word with such obvious contempt and disdain. "I have to go," she decided, not willing to subject herself to this any further.

"Wait, Clarke-"

She didn't wait. She ended the call and threw her phone down on the carpet, fed up. Just _so_ fucking fed up with feeling judged by people. People like Roan and Charmaine and McCreary, who thought she was just a piece of flesh. People like her mom, who thought she was an idiot for dumping Finn. Even people like Maya, who just didn't understand that . . . that she just wasn't the same person she used to be. And she didn't even _want_ to be the same person anymore.

...

Harper didn't waste any time getting her things—her life, really—packed up once her finals were done. She took the essentials, donated some things to the nearest thrift store, and gave some furniture and household items to Clarke. Clarke, in turn, gave her a going away present, one that Harper didn't seem to know what to think of at first.

"What's this?" she asked as she accepted the potted plant from Clarke.

"It's a housewarming gift," Clarke said. "Hopefully it survives the road trip to Kansas."

"I told her to get you a breadbox, but she went with this," Bellamy mumbled.

"This is nice, too," Harper said. "Thank you, Clarke." She set it down in the passenger's seat, on top of a cardboard box marked _Kitchen_ , and motioned for Bellamy to wander away. "Can we get a little . . ."

"Oh. Yeah. Girl-time," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He shuffled up onto the sidewalk, mumbling, "I got the wrong parts for that."

Clarke stood in the parking lot with her friend then, struggling to say goodbye. "I can't believe you're going," she said, trying to keep the emotions inside as much as possible. "I mean, I'm happy for you, don't get me wrong, but . . . selfishly . . ."

"I know." Harper nodded, blinking back tears. "This is the only part of leaving that sucks for me."

 _It sucks so bad,_ Clarke thought. She'd left Monty and Jasper and Maya back in August, and Harper was leaving her now. Were all of her friendships going to be so fleeting like this?

"Will you promise me that you'll stay safe, Clarke?" Harper asked earnestly. "Promise."

"I will," she swore. "You know Bellamy won't let anything happen to me. Besides, he taught me all this stuff about how to throw a punch, so if anything bad ever happens, I'll be ready."

"I don't just mean that," Harper said. "I mean . . ." She squinted her eyes, gazing at Clarke intently. "Just be careful being Number One. Always remember that you're more than that."

Clarke took that in, nodding slowly. "I'll remember," she promised.

"And have copious amounts of sex with your boyfriend," Harper added, laughing, "because he's totally in love with you, and you guys deserve to be happy."

Clarke blushed. Now _that_ was a promise that wouldn't be hard to keep.

"Come here." Harper opened up her arms, and Clarke walked into them, giving her a big hug. God, she was going to miss this girl so much.

"Thank you for everything," she said. "Tell Monty and everyone . . ." Thinking about them made her even _more_ emotional, and the last thing she needed to do was become a blubbering mess right now. "Just tell them I miss them. I think they're all kind of upset with me right now about Finn."

"I'll tell them," Harper said, releasing her from the hug. "And I _won't_ tell them about . . . the things you don't want me to tell them about."

Clarke nodded, grateful that she could trust Harper implicitly to keep the stripping a secret.

"But Clarke, sooner or later, you're gonna have to come clean to the people back home. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Just own it. That's what I do."

She sighed shakily, wishing she could be more like her friend in that regard. "We'll see," she said. Realistically, she knew she couldn't keep this a secret forever. There would likely come a day when, for whatever reason, she decided to open up and be honest with all of them. Today just was _not_ that day. It was a long time coming, if ever.

"Alright, well, I better go," Harper said. "Bellamy . . . get in here." She motioned him back over and gave him a hug, too. "Take care of my girl, okay?"

"Take care of yourself," he said.

"Maybe I'll see you at her mom's wedding?"

He shrugged. "If Clarke invites me to be her date."

"Yes, you'll see him there," Clarke assured her. The only way she was going to make it through a return-trip home to Kansas was if Bellamy went with her. "Goodbye, Harper," she said, comforted that at least she'd be able to see her again in a couple of weeks.

"Bye, guys." Tearfully, Harper waved, walked around to the driver's side of her car, and got in. She put on her sunglasses, turned on the radio, and smiled at them in the rearview mirror before starting it up and driving out of the parking lot.

Clarke stood on the sidewalk with Bellamy, watching her friend leave, watching until her car was out of sight. Once it was, the reality set in that it wouldn't be so easy to call Harper up and go get lunch with her anymore. She wouldn't be able to rehearse with her at the club, wouldn't be able to invite her over for another night with their friends. It was a dismal feeling, one she'd been trying to bury because she didn't want to make Harper feel guilty for leaving.

But when it was just her and Bellamy, there was no need to hold back. She could be openly sad with him, so she was. She cried, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his warm embrace, holding her close and rubbing her back as her shoulders shook with soft sobs. If it wasn't for him, she would have felt _incredibly_ lonely. But he was still there, and that was enough.

...

Murphy and Emori's nuptials gave Clarke something to look forward to, and for that, Bellamy was grateful. In the days following Harper's departure, Clarke was a little down in the dumps, but she perked back up when the weekend rolled around. Since they weren't close to their families, Murphy and Emori really didn't invite many people to the ceremony. Emori hated the people she worked with, so that left Murphy inviting just a few people from Grounders: Bellamy, Clarke, Niylah, Anya, and Luna. While all the girls got Emori ready, Bellamy was left to help Murphy, who unsurprisingly didn't know how to tie a tie and almost lost the rings on more than one occasion. He finally just gave them to Bellamy to hold onto, which seemed wise.

"Man, I look so unnatural in a suit," he said as he surveyed himself in the bathroom mirror. "Do I have to wear this?"

"You're getting married, so yeah," Bellamy answered. It wasn't a full-on tux, but it'd get the job done. "You think Emori's gonna like it?"

"Hell, yeah." Murphy grinned. "She's gonna like tearin' it off me. You know what I mean?"

Bellamy rolled his eyes, but he had to smile, too. Murphy seemed . . . kind of stoked, in his own weird way. He didn't seem to be having any doubts or second-guessing anything. He was ready to become a husband.

"Hey, this is gonna be you someday," his friend said as he fiddled with his tie. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah. But I'll look better in a suit," Bellamy claimed.

Murphy chuckled, but only for a moment. "I'm serious, though," he said. "This is your future. 'cause I would assume you and Clarke are doin' it all the time."

"Not _all_ the time," he denied.

"A lot, though, right?"

This week had been a little sparse, on account of her having her period and feeling down about Harper leaving. But they'd still done it here and there. "We make it a priority," he admitted.

"Hey, just don't rely on pulling out, 'cause clearly that didn't work for me," Murphy cautioned. "But I know that, when she does get knocked up, you'll man up and pop the question, do the right thing."

Bellamy made a face. "I like how you just assume I'm getting her pregnant _before_ I get down on one knee." That wasn't the timeline he had in mind. He wanted to do things in the right order, marry Clarke before they made a baby.

"Well, with the prioritized sex, can you blame me?"

Bellamy shook his head and gave his friend a shove on the back to get him heading out of the bathroom. His bride awaited him.

It definitely wasn't an extravagant ceremony, but it didn't need to be. Emori wore a short white dress with thin sleeves, and her hair was curled. She looked way more girly than Bellamy had ever seen her look before, and her baby bump, though relatively hidden, _was_ visible if you looked close enough. The rings she and Murphy exchanged weren't flashy or expensive, but they fit fine, and Emori's whole face lit up when he slid it onto her finger. They didn't write their own vows, just stuck to the traditional "for richer or for poorer" and "for better or for worse." Bellamy stood behind Murphy, pretty much in best man mode, and Clarke stood behind Emori, and their eyes locked as Murphy and Emori said their vows to each other. He smiled at her, imagining the day when they would stand up together and make a commitment like this. They'd write their own vows, though, for sure.

Only fifteen minutes after the ceremony began, Murphy and Emori were officially pronounced husband and wife. They kissed happily while their small crowd clapped for them, and he swooped her up in his arms and carried her out into the hallway, where she proceeded to throw her small bouquet of flowers. Niylah dove in front of Clarke to catch it, exclaimed "Fuck yes!" excitedly, and then apologized to Clarke and asked, "Are these yours?"

Clarke just shrugged and told her to keep them.

 _They're hers,_ Bellamy thought. In the back of his mind and deep down in his heart, he already knew . . . there was no way he and Clarke _wouldn't_ be engaged a year from now. Maybe around Christmas or New Year's he'd have enough money saved up that he could buy her a nice ring and propose to her. She'd be twenty at that point, so . . . twenty just _sounded_ better than nineteen when it came to getting engaged.

For a reception, they kept it simple, heading out to Ace Bar, which Emori had never been to before and Murphy hadn't gone to for a while. They had pizza, played games, and Bellamy even saw a lighter side of Anya as she crushed it on skee-ball.

He ended up wasting a few quarters on a claw machine, just for the hell of it, because Clarke saw a stuffed puppy in there she really wanted for some reason. "You got me that teddy bear once," she reminded him. "You try it. You're good at it."

It wasn't like he had an unshakable talent for it or anything, but he gave it a go. Although he didn't latch onto the puppy, he did somehow latch onto a plastic egg next to it, and he held his breath as the claw rose, barely holding onto it.

"Oh, you got it," Clarke said. "You got it."

"Don't jinx it." These machines suckered you into thinking you had it until, at the very last minute, it dropped back down again. He maneuvered the claw, and miraculously, the damn egg dropped down into the dispenser. "Yes!" he exclaimed, unreasonably excited about something that was probably just a piece of crap.

"Ooh, I've never gotten anything out of one of these before," Clarke squealed. "What'd you get this time?"

"Let's see." He retrieved the egg, opened it up, and, perhaps coincidentally, found a ring inside. Probably something made of plastic with a fake blue jewel on top of it, but still . . . a ring.

"Oh, fancy," she said.

It wasn't, not really, and it since it was in a claw machine, it was probably meant for a kid. But Clarke had small fingers, so he assumed it'd fit. "It's for you," he said, holding it out for her.

"What?"

"Give me your hand."

Looking a bit taken aback, she held out her hand, her _left_ hand, as fate would have it, and he slid the ring onto her finger. "There," he said. It looked good, in its own way.

"This is the engagement ring finger," she pointed out.

"But it's, like, a promise ring," he informed her. "And someday it'll be the other kind."

Her breath seemed to hitch as he gazed at him and took that in. A promise ring. Yeah. He really meant that.

He smiled at her, thinking in his head, _Someday._ And he saw that same promise reflected in her eyes.


	57. Chapter 57

_Chapter 57_

In the middle of the night, Bellamy's phone buzzed. As tempted as he was to just sleep through it, he decided to at least pick it up and see who was calling. He smirked when he saw _Twisted Sister_ on his screen, because that was what he called Octavia behind her back.

"O," he said, sitting up, careful not to disturb Clarke, "you know, I'm an hour _ahead_ of you here, right?"

Her voice cracked when she said his name. "Bellamy?"

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he tensed up, sensing . . . worry. Fear. She was afraid of something.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up," she apologized tearfully.

He suddenly didn't care. "What's wrong?" he asked, getting out of bed. "You okay?"

"I'm just really worried," she confessed. "About Mom."

 _Oh, shit._ His heart sank down into his stomach, and he slid the balcony door open to step outside so he could talk louder. "What happened?" he asked.

"She stayed out late tonight, and when she came home, she was with this guy . . ." Octavia explained, her voice quivering. "I think she works with him, I don't know. But it seemed like she'd been drinking."

"What do you mean?" He needed to know more before he allowed himself to become as worried as his sister was. "Was she slurring or stumbling or . . ."

She sniffled loudly. "Not really. But I thought I smelled alcohol and . . . I don't know, maybe I'm freaking out about nothing. I shouldn't have called you."

"No, I'm glad you did." It didn't matter if he was halfway across the country. If his sister ever needed him for anything, he wanted her to call him without giving it a second thought. "Um . . . listen, if she was with somebody, though . . ." he said, trying to keep his voice calm so she wouldn't get even more worked up, "then maybe _he_ was drinking. Maybe that's the alcohol you smelled."

"Maybe."

It wasn't much of a comfort, he knew. Because even if their mom was hanging out with a guy who was getting drunk, that was a risk. It was a risk for her to be around alcohol at all. "You didn't see her drink anything right?" he asked.

"No."

"And did she seem . . . out of it?"

"Well, they were being a little loud, but . . . they only stayed for a couple minutes, and then they left again," she told him.

Oh . . . he didn't like the sound of that. If either one of them had been drinking, the last thing they needed to be doing was getting in a car. "Did she say where she was going?" he questioned.

"She just said they were going to his place. I don't even know where his place is. I don't know who _he_ is. I don't know what's going on."

Since she was starting to sound hysterical again, Bellamy assured her, "It's probably nothing. She's a grown woman. She's allowed to . . . go out on dates." But inside, he felt the same fear she was feeling. They lived in constant fear of their mother relapsing. Neither one of them talked about it a whole lot, but it lingered in the back of their minds every single day.

"Yeah," she said, though she didn't sound fully convinced. "It was probably just a date."

"And even if he drank, it doesn't mean she did." He really _wanted_ to believe in his mom, to give her the benefit of the doubt. But given her history, that was hard.

"Yeah, I know," Octavia said. "She's just been a little stressed lately with my whole college thing and thinking about all the loans we're gonna have to take out to pay for it. I haven't told you because I don't want you to worry."

"No, O, you gotta . . ." He winced, wishing she wouldn't worry about him when it was supposed to be the other way around. "You gotta tell me this stuff." He was the _big_ brother, after all. He was supposed to be the one to deal with this. "So she's been stressed, huh?"

"Kind of," she whimpered. "I don't know if that'd be enough to make her drink again, but . . . what if she did? What if she's drinking right now? What if she goes back to . . . the way she was? She's been doing so good, and I don't want her to go back."

"Listen to me, Octavia," he cut in before she became too worked up, "everything's gonna be fine. Alright? I promise." He wished there was a way to guarantee that he'd be able to keep that promise, but . . . there just wasn't. And they both knew that. "I'm gonna try to call her, okay?"

"You—you can't," she stuttered. "She left her phone here."

He groaned inwardly, frustrated with his mom for being so . . . irresponsible. Even if she hadn't been drinking, she was acting like a teenager tonight, staying out late, coming home with a guy, not taking her phone or doing much to let Octavia know where she was going. Sometimes it felt like they were the ones who parented her, and his patience with that wore thin pretty often. "Then have her call me when she gets home," he said, "will you?"

"Okay," she said weakly. "I think I'll just . . . I'll just wait up for her."

He pictured his sister curled up on the couch underneath an afghan, looking out the window, getting her hopes up whenever she saw headlights coming down the gravel road. He felt bad for not being there with her, keeping her company. "You want me to stay on the phone with you?" he offered. He could, and he would, all night if he had to.

"No, I'm fine," she said. "Just go back to sleep. I've got it covered." She ended the call quickly, before he could even properly say goodbye.

 _Dammit,_ he thought, shaking his head regretfully. The biggest downside about leaving home all those years ago had been leaving his little sister's side. Even though he didn't see her much anymore, she still meant the world to him, and they were still close. But in times like these, the physical distance made it hard to feel like he was _really_ doing his best to be there for her. She was only seventeen, and she had too much weight on her shoulders.

Luckily for him, there _was_ someone back in good old Trikru who could help him out, someone he trusted, despite his initial skepticism when Octavia had started dating him. He called up her boyfriend and said, "Hey, Ilian, it's me."

"Yeah, don't worry, I'm already on my way over there," Ilian informed him. "She just called me, too."

Bellamy breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the kid didn't even have to be told to go over there. "Take care of her, alright?" he said.

"I will." Ilian ended the call just as quickly as Octavia had, and Bellamy was left out on that balcony, talking to no one, worrying about all sorts of things he couldn't really control from here. He just had to have faith in his mom. Either she was fine, or she'd relapsed and she'd have to overcome it again. She'd done it before. But he didn't want to go through that again. And he didn't want _Octavia_ to have to go through that. She still had a couple months at home before she went to college. If their mom was struggling, then maybe Ilian's family would let her go stay with them, or maybe she could come to New York for the summer . . .

His mind was racing when Clarke slid open the door and peeked out. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," he said, not wanting to worry her with it. "Just go back to sleep."

"Bellamy." She gave him a knowing look.

He came back inside and shut the door, hanging his head. "It's my mom," he mumbled. "Octavia's worried about her. She might be relapsing."

"What?"

"But she might not be. It's hard to say." He reached around her, setting his phone back down on the nightstand, hoping it would ring again in a couple of minutes, and Octavia would be calling him to tell him their mom was home and she was fine, that it was all it just a big misunderstanding. That wasn't likely, but . . . anything was possible.

"All our lives," he said, "my sister and I . . . we've watched our mom spiral, just to get clean again, just to spiral again. It's a cycle. It's bad, Clarke." In some respects, he'd had it worse than Octavia, because those early years, the ones she hadn't been around for or had been too young to remember . . . those had been the worst. But Octavia had it harder these days. Because he wasn't around, so a lot of the responsibility for looking after their mom when she was in bad shape fell on her.

"But she's been sober for a while, right?" Clarke asked, sounding hopeful.

"Yeah. No drinking, no drugs. But there's no guarantee it'll last, and we both worry . . ." He trailed off, sighing heavily. "Octavia _really_ worries, though, 'cause she's the one who lives with her and she's the one who's there to see all of it." Truth be told, he had no idea what was going to happen when Octavia moved out. When their mother was left on her own, there was no telling what she might succumb to.

"Octavia's pretty young," Clarke commented. "I'm sure that's a lot to deal with."

"Yeah. And she used to have these panic attacks whenever it seemed like Mom was about to lose it again." He shook his head, trying not to remember _those_ episodes. He used to have to pull Octavia into another room and work with her just on _breathing_ , because she'd get so worked up that she hyperventilated.

"And is that what's going on right now?" Clarke asked concernedly.

"Kind of." It wasn't one of her bad panic attacks, though. Even over the phone, he could tell the difference. "Ilian's on his way over there, so . . . he'll look after her. He's done it before. I just wish there was more I could do."

Clarke put her hand on his arm, rubbing it gently, and asked, "Well, what do you think? Is your mom gonna be okay?"

"I hope so." He'd know more tomorrow once he was able to talk to her. "It's probably nothing. Octavia just . . . she worries, like I said."

"But you're worried, too," Clarke said softly, gazing up at him.

He was. There was no concealing that. "I love my mom," he choked out. "Probably more than she loves me. I want her to be okay."

"She will be," Clarke assured him, raising her hand to cup his cheek. "Hey, look at me," she said, stroking her thumb against his skin.

His eyes met hers, and he felt . . . free. There was no other way to describe it in that moment. Just standing there with her, feeling the warmth from her touch . . . god, it made him feel like nothing was wrong. It shut his mind off, and all the worries just melted away.

"She'll be okay," Clarke whispered, her voice as comforting as her touch was.

 _Help me,_ he thought, too embarrassed to say it. He needed her to help him be free right now, to not crumble under the anxiety of what might start happening back home. He needed her to help him be strong, because if the worst were to happen, then his sister needed him to be strong for her.

"I need you, Clarke," he said quietly, not even sure if she'd heard him.

She must have, though, because she closed the distance between them and kissed him softly, her lips just a brush against his own. Even a kiss like that, though . . . it reassured him, made him feel like everything was gonna be alright. So he kissed her right back, his hands coming up to rest against her hips. He just needed to feel her next to him, to know she was there.

He wasn't sure how it happened that they started taking their clothes off. One second, they were just kissing, and the next, he was lifting his arms in the air so she could pull his t-shirt over his head. Standing before her in only his boxers then, he craned his neck back and reveled in the feel of her lips as she kissed his chest and trailed her hands down his abdomen, fingernails scratching lightly. He tangled his hand in her hair, pulled back gently, and bent down to press his mouth to hers again, the tip of his tongue flicking out to brush against hers.

They stumbled back towards the bed, neither one of them graceful or refined as they practically fell on top of it. She scrambled out of her t-shirt, which was actually one of his t-shirts, and lay underneath him, all naked and warm and inviting, and he felt like he just _had_ to lose himself in her. So he shoved his boxers down, positioned himself on top of her, and very nearly pushed right in before he realized he wasn't wearing a condom. She was already on it, though, reaching over into the nightstand drawer to fumble around for one. She reached down in between them and put it on for him, stroking his cock in the process, and it twitched in her hand.

Once he was sheathed, he bent forward, holding himself up on one arm while he snaked his other hand down in between their bodies to guide himself into her. She moaned and dug her head back into the pillow as he pushed in fully, and her hips arched a bit to accept him. He felt bad for not giving her much foreplay, building it up, but . . . god, he just couldn't wait.

He rocked into her steadily, one arm on either side of her head, and gazed down at her, amazed by that look in her eyes. She . . . she really loved him. Not that that was news to him, but still . . . that love was all over her. In her eyes, in the sound of the breathy moans that passed over her lips. In the feel of her fluttering stomach muscles, the graze of her hands on his arms and sides. He felt it when she squeezed down on him, when she coiled her legs around him to pull him deeper, when their mouths met again for a shaky kiss.

"I'm right here," she whispered, and good god, how did she know that was exactly what he wanted to hear? He picked up the pace a bit, thrusting into her faster, still trying to be as gentle as he could with her, even as he felt his climax approaching.

When he came, it was without her this time. And that was okay. She didn't seem upset or disappointed. He rode it out, struggling to hold himself up and not just collapse on her, and stayed inside her until he was sure it was over. When he did pull out of her, he didn't want to go too far. And she kept her legs wrapped around him as if to keep him close.

Feeling spent but satiated, he lay down on her, hoping he wasn't too heavy, and used her chest as a pillow while his breathing began to slow and return to normal. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to stay here, but for now . . . it was good. Just where he needed to be.

She rubbed his head with one hand, his shoulders with the other, and just lay with him, helping his mind feel free for a little longer. As much as he loved being the one to take care of her, there were moments like this when it felt so incredible to switch it up and just let her take care of him.

...

All the tossing and turning Bellamy had ended up doing last night led Clarke to suspect that he hadn't gotten much sleep. And since he hadn't gotten much sleep, neither had she. They both got out of bed earlier than they usually did, and the first thing Bellamy did after showering and brushing his teeth was try to call his sister. He didn't get her at first, so he had to try again. Clarke opted to take the laundry downstairs to toss it in the washer and give him a little space, but when she returned, he was sitting at the kitchen counter, still on the phone.

"What's she doing now?" he was asking Octavia, she presumed. "Well, did you tell her I wanted to talk to her?"

Clarke set the laundry basket down, interpreting that look on his face as one of . . . disappointment.

"Right," he muttered. "I'll try calling her later then. Just let me know if you need anything." A slight pause, and then he ended the call with, "Alright, bye," and set his phone down dejectedly.

"So what's the word?" she asked, shuffling towards him.

"My mom got home half an hour ago," he revealed. "She doesn't wanna talk to me."

Clarke frowned. "Why not?"

He just shook his head and flung his hand in the air, as though that were supposed to be an answer.

"Is Octavia still worried about her?" she asked, sitting down on the empty stool.

"Yeah," he said, staring down at his lap. "She said she wasn't really acting like herself. But Mom claims she wasn't drinking, so . . ." He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

Rubbing his back, Clarke tried to think of some other explanation for her behavior. "Maybe she just went out and lived it up a little," she speculated.

He snorted. "My mom doesn't know how to live it up without drinking or doing drugs."

That sort of reminded her of Finn these days. Not the drugs part, but . . . who knew what Cage had him wrapped up in now? She didn't really wanna think about it. "So does it usually start with alcohol," and asked, "and then progress to . . ." Trailing off, she realized she didn't even know what kinds of drugs Bellamy's mom had struggled with. Prescription meds or stuff like cocaine and heroin? What if it was meth? Wasn't meth supposed to be the worst?

"Yeah, booze is like her gateway to the other stuff," he said.

"So is that why you're so uptight about me not drinking?"

"No, you're just underage." He managed to crack half a smile and joked, "I took a sacred oath when I became a bartender, Clarke. I gotta uphold that."

"A sacred oath." She rolled her eyes, laughing a little. "Well, what do you usually do when something like this happens?"

"Depends how serious it is," he mumbled in response. "Sometimes I make a few phone calls, try to get her into rehab. Sometimes she just gets through it on her own."

Her heart went out to him. In the time that she'd known him, she'd never seen him go through this. She wanted to be the supportive girlfriend and everything, but she wasn't sure what to do. "Do you ever go see her?" she asked, wondering if that might help the situation.

"Not really," he said. "I think sometimes that just makes it worse."

"But you're her son," she protested. Even if she was spiraling, that had to matter to his mom.

"I'm also the son of the guy who raped her," he reminded her, and the bluntness with which he said it sent a chill up her spine. "And I look like . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head. "She doesn't need that reminder."

She forgot about that fact. A lot. Just because it didn't seem to have altered who he was. "Well, what if we flew her out here and got her away from her usual environment?" she suggested.

"Yeah, 'cause it's so wholesome in New York City," he said sarcastically. "No, I'll just wait until I can talk to her, see what I can find out, take it from there. And as long as Ilian's looking after Octavia, that's the most important thing."

She studied him intently for a few seconds, wondering how someone who'd lived the life he had could grow up to be the man he was. Bellamy Blake was . . . her hero, honestly. He was the one person she knew she could trust and rely on no matter what, the one person who she felt perfectly safe and content with. "I know we don't really talk about . . . how your mom ended up getting pregnant with you," she said, trying to phrase it delicately. "Whoever did that to her was _evil._ But . . . you're good."

He halfway shrugged, as though he didn't really believe that.

"You're a good man," she told him, even though she'd told him that plenty of times before. She needed him to know that, especially because he seemed to doubt it sometimes. "You're a good son and a good brother and a good boyfriend." She smiled at him, making sure to add on the obvious: "And I love you."

He met her eyes, and he looked . . . relieved to hear that. Because he wouldn't hear it from his mom. She'd pieced together enough about their relationship to gather that much. No matter how much he worried about her or checked up on her or did everything in his power to take care of her, he wasn't going to hear those words from her. So Clarke had no problem being the one to tell him. Every single day.

...

Niylah came offstage all smiles, cheers and applause following her.

"You killed it out there," Clarke said, handing her friend a robe.

"Thanks." Niylah tied it loosely around the waist, leaving her breasts mostly exposed, and said, "I think I'm gettin' the hang of it."

"You definitely are," Clarke agreed. Niylah wasn't a natural dancer, but she was a good performer. And in the end, it was all about the performance.

"Oh, don't worry, Clarke," Niylah said. "You're still Number One."

Clarke shook her head, mumbling, "I don't really care about any of that."

Niylah looked at her seriously and said, "Yes, you do."

She tensed momentarily, alarmed by that. Did she? Did she _really_ care? She glanced sideways, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing straight up lingerie tonight, but not one piece of it was going to stay on. Harper had had her boundaries, lines that she just wouldn't cross. She'd never been completely naked up there. Topless was as far as it had ever gone for her. But Clarke had crossed that line a long time ago, and now people expected the whole thing, so . . . there was just no going back. Getting to Number One had been easy. Staying there . . . that felt more excruciating.

"So I hate to break it to you," Niylah said, flopping down in front of one of the vanities, "but your ex is in the crowd tonight."

"Finn?" Clarke shrieked. "You're kidding me."

"Nope. And he's with that guy you don't like."

There were plenty of guys she didn't like, but only one of them was attached at the hip with Finn. "Cage?" she groaned, bravely creeping up to the curtain to peek out. Indeed, lounging there on the couch next to Charmaine and McCreary were two _other_ people she didn't want to dance for. Finn looked drunk, and Cage looked . . . well, like he usually did. Which was like an ass.

"Fuck my life," she grumbled, pulling the curtain all the way closed. "What're they doing here?"

"Probably just wanna give you a hard time," Niylah figured.

"Well, it's already working." How was she supposed to concentrate on putting on a good show when all she could think about was those two? Finn had seen everything before, but that didn't mean she wanted him to see it again. And Cage . . . ugh, just the thought of Cage seeing her without her clothes on made her skin crawl. "I don't suppose you could go on again in my place, could you?" she practically begged her friend.

"Well, I mean, I _could_ ," Niylah said, "but . . . you've got bills to pay, too, I'm sure. I don't wanna take your money."

In the grand scale of money versus pride, pride was more important, though. And Clarke felt too proud to get out there and dance for them. But it seemed too late to do anything about it as Niylah got up and started getting dressed in her street clothes again. Besides, Clarke knew how tiring it could be to do back-to-back shows. And if she flaked, then people would start to doubt that she was the best. And she couldn't have that.

"Six more months," she reminded herself, sighing. This wasn't going to be the kind of life she lived forever.

...

Halfway into his shift, Bellamy was already dead tired. He wasn't sure how he was going to stay on his feet the rest of the night. Having gotten very little sleep, all he wanted to do was go home and crash, but he had four more hours left, at _least_. If his neighbor Dale had a couple more drinks, he'd probably fall asleep on the bar, and then Bellamy would have to call him a cab or give him a ride. Either one of those involved hauling him outside, which would take even more energy that he didn't currently have.

He didn't feel upbeat or social or anything bartenders were supposed to be, so he mainly hung back and washed glasses and kept things stocked while Murphy and Atom kept everyone . . . hydrated. He did his best to just block out whatever conversation the customers were having, but every once in a while, something would seep in. There were two bearded trucker-type guys in particular who didn't have a low volume setting. They belly-laughed and burped and in general just acted like drunken idiots. They weren't regulars, but they fit right in with the current crowd.

"I like the, uh, the lesbian chick," one of them said.

"Yeah, she's hot," the other agreed.

 _The lesbian chick,_ Bellamy thought. That was what Niylah had reduced herself to when she'd agreed to be a dancer, but . . . he supposed he couldn't really blame her. It paid a hell of a lot better than tending the bar did.

"And it's like she's one of the boys, you know? 'cause she bangs chicks."

"I'd let her bang me."

Bellamy was all set to just tune them out when their conversation shifted away from Niylah, and onto someone he cared about a whole lot more.

"You know who's up next, right?"

"The best little bitch."

"Best one."

He froze with his back to them in the middle of dunking a glass in the soapy bin of the sink. God, did they even know her name? Maybe it was better if they didn't.

"Fuckin' sexy little cunt," one of them growled. "I'd fuck her so hard."

"Yeah."

 _Just ignore it,_ he told himself, although standing there listening to that just made his blood boil. He knew neither one of them stood a chance with her. They were just fantasizing; that was _all_ they'd ever get to do with Clarke. But it pissed him off nonetheless.

"You know, I'm not one to break the law," one of the guys said, "but . . . even if she said no . . . I'd just fuckin' rage in her. Rape the hell out of her. I don't even care."

Bellamy squeezed the glass in his hand so hard, it nearly broke.

"And I'd take her when you're done," the other one added, laughing. Actually _laughing_ at that. "Hey, can I get a refill?" he hollered.

It took Bellamy a moment to realize that guy was asking him. He set the glass down in the sink, dried off his hand, turned around, and said decisively, "No."

Both men looked at him with confused expressions on their faces. "What?"

"No, you can't a refill," he told them. "In fact, you can't stay here, either of you. Leave."

One of them just stared at him in disbelief, but the other threw his hands up and spat, "What the hell did we do?"

"Get the fuck out of my face," Bellamy roared, moving towards them. They both leaned back a bit on their stools. "I will _throw you out_ if that's what it takes. _Leave_!" he shouted, drawing the attention of plenty of other people now. "You think I'm kidding?" he yelled. "You think I'm fucking kidding?" He lifted his fist, prepared to take a swing if he had to. That was what those motherfuckers deserved, to get their smug faces punched in.

The commotion must have caught Anya's attention right away, because she was there in seconds, scurrying behind the bar to get in between Bellamy and the customers. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's going on here?" she interjected.

"Your bartender wants to kick us out," one of the guys told her.

"He won't serve us," the other added.

"Go to hell," Bellamy snarled.

"Wait a minute, what's going on?" Anya asked, but she only looked at Bellamy this time.

"He's bein' a little bitch!" one of the men snapped.

"Bellamy . . ." Anya gave him a warning look, like he'd better explain. Then she glanced at Murphy and Atom and motioned for them to get back to work.

"No, you should've heard the way they were talking about her!" Bellamy thundered, not about to apologize for standing up against two disgusting human beings. "They were talking about raping her, Anya! I'm not gonna just listen to that! I can't!"

Anya looked like her blood was boiling, but she stayed calm as she turned to the two men and said, "I think it's best if you two leave."

"Ah, fuck this," one of them muttered. Neither one of them paid for the drinks they'd already had, but they said something about going to find some _real_ pussy as they left.

 _Thank God,_ Bellamy thought. He would've lost it on them, and it would have taken at least two bouncers to get him to stop.

"You, too," Anya said.

"What?" Him, too? She wanted him to leave . . . too? "I didn't do anything wrong," he argued.

"Did they threaten her?" she asked.

"They . . ." He hesitated, trying to remember _exactly_ what they'd said. "Kind of," he said. It was probably all just talk, but . . . what if it wasn't? What if they'd really been thinking about violating Clarke like that? "They were just talking about . . . it's threatening enough, okay?" he blared.

"You said we weren't gonna have any problems, Bellamy," she reminded him sharply. "You said if I let you keep working here . . ."

"We're not having any problems," he denied. It was done now, over. Those guys were gone, and he could get back to work.

"I just lost two customers tonight because of you!" she hissed at him.

"Yeah, two jackasses." He shook his head in contempt. "We're better off without 'em."

"Still . . . I think you need to call it a night, go calm down."

"Right when Clarke's about to go on?" Oh, this was fucking fantastic then, wasn't it? Finn and Cage were there, and the regular losers like McCreary wouldn't dream of being anywhere else. And where was he gonna be? Not behind the bar, where she'd look over if she started feeling overwhelmed or if she just needed to be able to see him. No, his own boss was kicking him out. All because he'd done the right thing.

Officially exiled, there wasn't really much he could do except sit around outside and wait for Clarke to get done. He sat on the hood of his car, listening to all the shouting and the music coming from inside. It was a pretty sexy song. Must've been a pretty sexy dance, too. Hopefully nothing too extreme.

He pulled out his phone while he waited, figuring he might as well do something productive with his time, and checked to see if his mom had ever called him. She hadn't despite his repeated texts and voicemails asking her to do so. He called her back again, and it kicked onto her voicemail _again_. It wasn't even her voice, just one of those automated _Please record your message after the tone_ things.

"Hey, Mom, it's me. Again," he said after the beep. "Can you call me back? Please?" He ended the call, not really holding his breath anymore that she would. He'd call Octavia later, check in with her and see how things were going. He hadn't heard from her much today, so either that was a good sign, or Ilian had just taken her over to his place.

There he sat, feeling useless. Because Clarke was in that club dancing, and he wasn't able to look after her. And his mom was back in Louisiana, probably spiraling, and he wasn't able to look after her, either. Yeah, a hell of a great son and boyfriend he was being.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any more dismal, Finn and Cage came staggering out of the club, both of them looking more than a little smashed. Finn noticed him right away and stumbled towards him. "Hey, Bellamy," he said, his breath reeking of alcohol. "How's it going? Still screwing my leftovers?"

Bellamy rolled his eyes. Luckily, Finn was a little easier to ignore than those guys at the bar had been. Because he was a tool.

"She looked pretty hot up there tonight, I gotta say." Finn licked his lips.

"I thought she looked thick," Cage put in. "You already knock her up, Big Man?"

"Shit," Finn cursed, "I hope it's not mine."

The two of them stared laughing, but Bellamy just looked away and didn't say anything.

"Ah, he's no fun," Cage said. "Come on, let's go get wasted." He slung his arm around his cousin's shoulders and led him down the street, where a fancy car that looked way out of place in this part of town was waiting.

 _Get wasted?_ Bellamy thought. They already seemed pretty wasted to him.

Not long afterward, Clarke exited the club, too, and she looked relieved to see him sitting out there waiting for her. "Hey. What happened?" she said. "Why are you out here?"

"I kinda lost it," he said.

She tilted her head to the side, her brows furrowing as she stared at him questioningly.

He _really_ didn't want her to know what those guys had been saying, though, didn't wanna even repeat the words, so he played if off as unimportant. "It doesn't matter," he mumbled. "How'd you do?"

"Um . . . fine," she said, shrugging a bit. "I mean, I made it through. I don't know if you saw, but Finn and Cage were there, so . . ." She sighed. "Yeah, I'm just glad to be done."

He could only imagine what that had been like for her, putting on a show while her ex-boyfriend watched. He hated the thought of it, too. He hated the thought of _everyone_ in there watching her.

"Hey, _Numero Uno,_ " a Hispanic guy with a heavy accent hollered from down the street. He was parked several spaces away, but Clarke had caught his attention. "How 'bout a sexy little dance for me?" he said, reaching down to grab at his junk and make a thrusting motion with his hips.

"Let's go," Bellamy suggested, wrapping his arm around her, effectively blocking her from that loser's view. God, there were _so many_ losers in this city, and so many of them were coming to this club now. He felt like it was happening more and more that people were recognizing her and saying things to her they shouldn't. And the worst part was . . . he felt like it was just gonna keep happening.

When they got home, things got . . . better. Because it was calm and quiet and just the two of them—everything Grounders wasn't. She wanted to take a bath, so he happily volunteered to get in there with her. Not for sex or anything like that. Just . . . just to be close.

They sat together in the warm water, facing each other, arms around each other. Her legs were over his, her groin dangerously close to his own, but he kept everything . . . under control. He wasn't some nympho who needed to get laid _all_ the time. Sometimes just being with her like this, smoothing his hands over her soft skin, threading his fingers through her wet hair . . . sometimes this was all he needed.

"What if we made it five more months instead?" she asked him quietly.

He knew what she was referring back to. And he was all for it. "Five more months would be good," he agreed, hoping she'd shorten it even more as the weeks wore on.


	58. Chapter 58

_Chapter 58_

Clarke rarely ever bothered with FaceTime. She realized some people liked it, but it just wasn't her thing. But Harper wanted to make it _their_ thing now that they were states apart, so Clarke gave into it. She hated seeing Harper on the tiny screen of her phone, though, so she set it up on her new-ish iPad instead—Finn had taken the computer, so she'd gotten the iPad for a hundred bucks at the thrift store—and lay back on the couch to talk with her friend. Face to face. Sort of.

"This is so much better than just texting, don't you think?" Harper said.

"It is," Clarke agreed. Maybe if she and her high school friends had used this app more, they wouldn't have drifted so much this year. "I do like being able to see the house."

"Yeah. It's pretty nice," Harper said, panning her phone around so Clarke could get another look at the living room. It was a lot bigger than the living room of her apartment, that was for sure. And there didn't appear to be a resident mouse who liked to scamper all about. "Still a lot of unpacking to do, though," Harper said, showing Clarke the piles of boxes set up by the wall.

"I bet Jasper won't help with any of that."

"I bet you're right." Harper's face came back onto the screen, and she said, "He's kind of a dork, but he and Monty are really funny together."

Clarke smiled fondly, remembering all the laughing attacks those two guys had given her and Maya back in the day. "Yeah," she said, allowing herself to miss all of them, just like she was now missing Harper. "So you're good, though?" she said. "Things are all . . . good so far?"

"Yeah, I really like it out here," Harper replied, sounding chipper. "Everything just smells fresher and cleaner. People are nicer. I think I was really over the whole big city thing. Catch me up, though. What's all happened? What'd I miss?"

"Uh . . ." Clarke thought back to what had happened in the days that Harper had been gone, and really, only one big thing came to mind. "Not much really. Murphy and Emori got married."

"God, Murphy's a husband." Harper shook her head in dismay. "I can't even fathom that."

"Yeah, really." As much as they teased him about it, though, he probably would be a good one. He and Emori were pretty damn devoted to each other. "And . . . that's about it," she said. "Niylah's killing it at the club."

"Got any new girls yet?"

"No, but I think Anya's gonna have auditions soon." She wasn't really looking forward to that, to be honest. "Ooh, but I came up with some new moves. Can I show you?"

"Sure. I'll give you my professional opinion."

Clarke got up off the couch and tried to figure out how to position her iPad so that Harper could see her. "Okay, let me prop this up," she said, setting it on the end table, leaning it back against the lamp. "Okay, so try to imagine that I'm actually on the pole," she said as she backed up to have her whole body on the screen. "But it'd be something like . . ." She gripped an imaginary pole with her left hand and started to swivel her hips, but before she could _really_ get moving, the door to the bathroom opened, and out came Bellamy without a stitch of clothing on.

"Hey, Clarke, did we pay the electric bill?" he asked, strolling forward without realizing Harper could see him. "'cause I feel like I should have less cash in my wallet than I actually do, so maybe we didn't pay that."

"Bellamy." She motioned towards the iPad.

"What?" He looked that way, and when he realized Harper was seeing _everything_ , he swore, "Oh, shit," and jumped behind Clarke to conceal himself. "Hi, Harper," he said.

"Hey, Bellamy," she returned. "Nice to . . . see you."

"He's nice to see." Clarke grinned.

"How's it goin'?" Bellamy asked, peeking his head over Clarke's shoulder as he continued to use her body to shield his. "You, uh . . . you like Kansas?"

"Love it so far," Harper answered. "Nice change of pace."

"I'll bet."

Clarke could barely keep from laughing. Here they were just carrying on a conversation, and Bellamy was still technically naked as the day he was born.

"Hey, look who it is!" Harper exclaimed, glancing off to the side.

"Jesus Christ," Bellamy swore when Monty's face appeared on the screen with her. He pressed his face against Clarke's shoulder.

"Hey, Monty!" Clarke said.

"Hey," he echoed. "Oh, hi, Bellamy."

He lifted his head up and managed an embarrassed, "Hi."

"Bellamy's having a slight case of nudity right now," Harper told her boyfriend. "Don't mind him."

"Actually, if we could just side-step," Bellamy said to Clarke, "then I'd be off the screen."

"Okay." She stepped aside.

"No, Clarke!" he yelled, dropping down to the floor when he no longer had her body as a cover. It worked, though. He may have momentarily flashed Harper and Monty with his junk, but he was now off screen and could crawl towards the couch.

"So how is everything, Monty?" Clarke asked, re-approaching the iPad to pick it up. "Did you survive freshman year?"

"I think so," he said.

"Oh, he's being modest," Harper said, smiling at him proudly. "He aced all his finals."

"That's great." Clarke hadn't even _taken_ finals in a year, so she had no idea if the college ones were harder than the high school ones. They had to be, right?

"What about you?" Monty asked her. "How's work?"

"Work?" She shot Harper a panicked look through the screen.

"Yeah, are you still waitressing?"

Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes." Yes, as far as Monty knew, that was what she'd been doing. "It's been, um . . . it's been steady."

Harper quickly changed the subject when she suggested to her boyfriend, "Hey, you should tell her about your internship this summer."

Monty, of course, being Monty, downplayed it as if it were no big deal. "Oh, it's nothing major really. Just some entry-level work at a tech company."

It didn't sound like nothing, though. It sounded like he was getting his start in a career field he was really interested in. It sounded like he was on his way.

She wished she could say the same.

...

Not every girl who worked at Grounders was someone Clarke would consider a friend. In fact, very few of them were. Sure, there was Niylah, but other than her . . . Clarke wasn't close to any of them. There was one girl who insisted on being called Sunset, as though that were _actually_ her name, and though she'd been there a while, she'd always pretty much just been . . . a closer. Never the one to start the night, never the one to headline it. And now that Roma was gone, she was closing out the performances more and more frequently.

The problem with Sunset was that, while they were getting ready, she liked to gossip. And she just sounded so catty and juvenile when she did it.

"Did you guys hear about Roma?" she babbled Friday night.

"No," Niylah said, taking the bait. "What happened?"

 _Do I even wanna know?_ Clarke wondered, trying to focus on putting on her mascara and block the gossip out.

"Arrested," Sunset revealed. "Cops busted her new club. Sex everywhere."

 _Oh god,_ Clarke thought. She knew cops went undercover at strip clubs a lot, but . . . she thought they'd just arrest the owners and the men, not the strippers themselves.

"Sex happens at every club, though," Niylah pointed out. "Even this one."

Clarke shivered as she recalled walking in on Roma giving McCreary a blowjob. Maybe . . . maybe that was what she'd been doing at her new club. Or maybe it'd been . . . even more than that. Either way, she had a son, so sitting here talking about it just seemed really disrespectful.

"Yeah, but this was like right out on the dance floor and shit," Sunset went on. "And Vivian's, like, whoring it up now, supposedly. They never should've left."

Clarke swallowed hard, wishing she could have convinced them to stay. It wasn't fun knowing that, inadvertently, she'd probably played a part in it. Her coming to the club and having the success that she'd had . . . it'd come at their expense. She'd taken the spotlight, and she hadn't even meant to.

"Well, wasn't Roma probably gonna get fired anyway?" Niylah said.

Sunset huffed, "Yeah, 'cause she sucked. What do you think, Clarke?"

Clarke thought that . . . that she really didn't want to be involved in the conversation. "I feel bad for them," she said simply. She didn't agree with what they were doing, but she wasn't going to sit here and act all judgmental. She knew what a slippery slope this job could be, and she suspected Sunset, having been doing it longer, knew the same.

"You know, Roma used to be Number One," Sunset said out of nowhere. "Back in the day."

Clarke looked at the other girl through the mirror, noting the . . . the disdain in her eyes. Maybe mixed with a little envy. She'd rarely ever talked to Sunset much, so she hadn't realized it before, but now . . . it just seemed like she really hated Clarke, hated how popular she was and resented her success. Not that it was much to brag about. What did it really even mean to be Number One? It meant that people expected the best from her all the time. It meant that she couldn't have an off night. It meant that any controversy in that damn club seemed to tie back to her in some way or another, and it was exhausting. Maybe girls like Sunset and Vivian thought it was glamorous, but really, it was anything but.

Anya came backstage a minute later to check on them. "I hope you girls are ready," she said. "It's a rowdy crowd tonight."

"What else is new?" Niylah said. "We can handle them."

 _Can we?_ Clarke wondered. That crowd of theirs was getting rowdier and rowdier all the time. Between people trying to jump up on stage and stealing money . . . it just made her wonder what was next.

"You okay?" Anya asked her.

She hadn't realized she had looked _not_ okay. "Yeah," she said, ready to put on her Girl Next Door face and . . . play the part.

"What is that?" Anya asked, pointing out . . . something on her.

"What?" She looked at her arm, thinking she may have spilled something, but then she realized what Anya was referring to: the cheap little ring on her finger. "Oh. That's, um . . ." She really wasn't sure how to explain what that was. "It was a gift."

Anya's eyebrows arched inquisitively. "Is it what I think it is?"

"No, it's a—it's a promise ring," she stuttered. "He got it out of a claw machine."

Anya crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. "You can't wear that up on stage, Clarke."

"Why not?" She'd worn it the other night when Finn and Cage had been here. Nobody had noticed it or said anything about it then. It was just a small thing.

"Because people will think it's an engagement ring," Anya explained.

"It's not," she insisted.

"They don't know that. And in their mind, the Girl Next Door isn't involved with someone."

"She is, though." Clarke frowned, not liking where this was going.

"Not to them. To them, she's a single, spirited young woman who would _not_ have a ring on that finger," Anya said. "Of any kind."

 _That's not me, though,_ Clarke wanted to scream. _I'm not her._

"Just wear it on the other hand," Niylah suggested.

"No, I wanna wear it on _this_ hand," she growled frustratedly, unwilling to give in. "It's fine," she said. "Nobody out there's gonna be looking at my fingers anyway. No when I'm giving them plenty of other stuff to look at." In fact, if they were looking that closely at _that_ part of her body, then she was doing something wrong.

"So you're wearing it?" Anya said.

She'd never really opposed her boss so directly before, so it felt risky. But she wasn't backing down. "Yes," she decided, gulping.

Anya stared at her for a moment, then shook her head disappointedly. She didn't fight it, though. She couldn't. What was she supposed to do, just _not_ have Clarke perform? Clarke knew she had the upper-hand in this scenario, and she wasn't changing her mind. That ring stayed on that finger. It was too significant to take it off.

...

Since Bellamy hadn't been scheduled to work that night, he and Clarke had the evening relatively free. Once she got done dancing, they headed straight home and started fucking. If anyone had moved into Bellamy's old apartment next door, they likely hated them with a fiery passion, because they weren't being quiet, and the headboard kept hitting the wall.

"Oh, yeah," she gasped, marveling at the sweat on his abs. He was sitting up, holding her legs out to the sides, just pounding into her. "Bellamy . . ." He'd already gone down on her and gotten her off that way, so this was all about him. "Give me that cum," she said invitingly.

His eyes nearly rolled back into his head when she said that. "Shit, Clarke," he swore, pulling out of her swiftly. He jerked his cock urgently, and a few seconds later, he was cumming on her stomach. Very warm, very sticky, and very arousing. When he did that, she felt like she was his canvas, and he was painting on her. It must have been a good orgasm, because . . . well, there was a lot of it.

She swirled her fingers around his cum once he was done, gathering it so she could get a taste. She knew exactly what Bellamy tasted like, all masculine and salty, but she knew that, like any guy, he loved _watching_ her taste him. So she licked it off her fingers, keeping her eyes locked with his while she did so.

"Damn," he said, watching in amazement. He seemed spent, because he practically collapsed beside her while she continued to clean herself off. "The things you say . . ." he whispered, leaning down to graze his lips against her shoulder. "You drive me crazy."

"In a good way?" she asked hopefully.

"A very good way," he confirmed. "You're so sexy."

She couldn't help but blush. Even though she was confident in the bedroom and really embraced her sexuality, it was still nice to hear that. Half the time, she got so caught up in the moment with Bellamy that she didn't even know what she was saying. She never wanted to overdo it with dirty talk, but it seemed like he enjoyed what she was doing now. Nothing over the top, just the things that she naturally felt like saying.

When his phone rang, he groaned, "No . . ." and moved in closer to her, seemingly in no mood to pick it up.

"Answer it," she told him.

"I don't wanna."

"What if it's your mom?" She knew he'd be kicking himself if he passed up on a much-needed talk with her.

That was all it took for him to flip over and grab the phone. "It's Octavia," he said, sitting up to talk to her. "Hey, everything alright?" He pressed a button to put her on speaker before she replied.

"Yeah. I just wanted to see if Mom ever called you back," she said.

He sighed. "No, she didn't."

 _Should I leave the room?_ Clarke wondered. She didn't want to intrude on a family moment, but . . . if Bellamy hadn't wanted her to hear, he wouldn't have put his sister on speaker.

"Well, she's going out with that same guy again tonight, so . . . I'm worried," Octavia admitted shakily. "What do I do?"

Bellamy rubbed his forehead, his shoulders hunching forward. "Well, do you know _where_ she's going?"

"Probably Fisherman's Wharf or Melvin's. It's not like they have a whole lot of options."

 _Same as Arkadia,_ Clarke thought. If someone wanted to get drunk there, it was pretty much the Bison Pub or Big Whiskey's that they went to.

"Alright, I'll call those places," Bellamy told her.

"And do what? Just remind them she's sober?" Octavia snorted. "It's not like they can just refuse to serve her."

"They might," Bellamy said.

There was a slight pause before Octavia mumbled, "Somebody served her the other night. I know it."

Bellamy winced, shaking his head. "Well, make sure she takes her phone with her this time. At least that way we can try to get a hold of her," he said. "And O . . . remember, it's not your job to take care of her. You're not responsible for the decisions she makes."

Clarke curled up on her side, feeling so sorry for Octavia. She could only imagine what it was like to see a parent fall apart like this. Watching her parents go through a divorce had been hard enough.

"I know," Octavia said.

"Is Ilian with you?" Bellamy asked her.

"Yeah, he's coming over."

"Good. Stay with him tonight, alright?"

"Okay," she said, sighing. "Bye."

"Bye," Bellamy said, reluctantly ending the call. He stared down at his phone sadly, looking worried now, just like his sister was.

"That doesn't sound good," Clarke said, sitting up beside him so she could rub his back.

"It's not," he said. "I might have to . . . I don't know. I guess I could try to fly her out here, but if she's got a new boyfriend, she's not gonna wanna come."

The muscles of his back felt tense, but gradually, they started to relax, and she moved a bit closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He gave her a small, appreciative smile, and said, "Is it wrong that, even with all that shit goin' on back home, I'm still the happiest I've ever been 'cause I'm with you?"

"No," she answered quickly, because the answer was obvious. "It's not wrong. You deserve to be happy."

He gave her a quick kiss on the lips, then picked up his phone again and said, "I gotta make those calls."

"Okay," she said. "You want some space?"

He nodded wordlessly.

"Alright." She got up and out of bed, figuring she could go wash up while he did what he needed to do. She was, after all, still kind of . . . sticky.

She went in the bathroom, put her hair up into a messy bun, and then crawled into the shower to wash off. She took a little longer than necessary, just in case Bellamy needed some time alone, and when she got out of the shower, she took her hair down again and ran a brush through it. She definitely _looked_ like she'd been having sex. Her makeup was smeared, so she just went ahead and wiped it all off.

She'd wrapped herself in a towel by the time she decided to leave the bathroom and rejoin him in the bedroom, but she found him still lying there without anything on, so she let the towel fall to the floor. "Did you get it done?" she asked, making her way to the bed.

"Yeah." He set his phone aside and looked up at her, his eyes dancing all over her body.

"You wanna go to sleep now?" she asked him. "Or stay up?"

A slow grin crept onto his lips. "Stay up," he said.

She climbed on top of him, well aware that her shower was about to be for nothing if they had sex again. But she didn't care. If sex helped keep his mind off of the crap back home, then she was more than willing to be his distraction.

They made out for a few minutes, slowly, sensually, and her mind started to race with possibilities. There was probably one type of sex that could distract him more than anything else, and it was the perfect timing since she'd just gotten out of the shower.

Mischievously, she reached over into the nightstand and took out the brand new tube of anal lube they'd purchased a couple weeks ago. She'd been thinking about suggesting they do this again, so why not do it now?

Bellamy just watched confusedly as she handed the lube to him and repositioned herself on top of him, sitting on his stomach with her ass facing him now. Reverse cowgirl or whatever? It wasn't a position they did very often, but it seemed like a good one to try for anal.

"You sure?" he asked her.

She wriggled her backside excitedly. "I've been wanting to try it again," she told him.

He smiled, and a few seconds later, she felt his fingers on her asshole, spreading lube all around. "You're so good to me," he said.

"You're good to me, too." She'd had plenty of bad nights where sex with him had been the thing to make her feel better. In fact, tonight had been one of those nights. Because that debate with Anya about taking the ring off had left her feeling pretty pissed off, and it wasn't like those men she danced for had done or said anything to make her feel any better.

When he stuck a finger into her ass, she moaned, rolling her head back, and said, "That feels good."

"Does it really?" he asked.

"Yeah, I like it." It still felt a bit strange, but not in a _bad_ way. She liked doing this with Bellamy, because it was _their_ thing. He was the only one she'd experienced it with. "I want your cock in there, though," she said, grinding her pussy down on his lower abdomen. Right in front of her, his cock was pretty hard again, erect and ready for attention, so she wrapped one hand around it and gave it a few good, long strokes.

"Fuck yeah," he groaned. "You wanna do it like this?"

"Yeah." It had definitely been a good idea to let him be in control the first time, but she prided herself on not being completely submissive in the bedroom. So she scooted downward, stopping when she was at the right spot for his cock to slide up and down her ass cheeks. She rubbed against him for a moment, knowing he must have quite the erotic view going on, and when she couldn't wait any longer, she reached back, grabbed his cock to hold it steady, and positioned it at her back entrance, ready to just sit down on him.

"Wait a minute," Bellamy said, grabbing her hips to hold them still. She heard him squirt some more lube into his hand, and then he moved her hand aside to smear it all over his cock. "Now you can go," he said.

She found it sweet that, even when she was ready to just go for it, he was able to think about her comfort, about making this as easy as possible for her. Once again, she grabbed hold of his length, and this time, she pushed herself down on it, closing her eyes and furrowing her brow as her body stretched for him. "Oh . . ." she moaned, sliding down as far as she could go without feeling stretched too far. "Oh, god." That was definitely a snug fit.

"That looks so good," Bellamy told her.

"Yeah?" She wished she could see it. Maybe next time they did this, she'd have to tell Bellamy to get his phone out.

After taking a minute to adjust to the feel of him in there, she started moving, riding him slowly and steadily, just like she would if they were having regular sex. She imagined what it must have looked like to see his cock getting swallowed up by her ass, and it turned her on even more. So she started riding him faster.

"Fuck, that's tight," he growled.

"Yeah? Does it feel good?"

"It feels fuckin' amazing." He smoothed his hands all over her ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading her flesh before complimenting, "Oh, you look so hot right now."

She _felt_ hot. She felt like the hottest girl in the world, even though she wasn't. Being with him made her feel that way.

The position was kind of a fun one, being able to control the pace of the act _and_ give him such a visual, but she wanted to see his face, wanted to plaster her body against his and be close to him. "I wanna feel you," she whimpered, reluctantly lifting her hips so that his cock slipped out of her. She heard him groan in protest, but his whole face lit up when she turned back around to her original position, straddling him normally again. She sank back down on his cock, able to _see_ that look of pleasure on his face this time when she did so. He didn't look like he was gonna last long.

"Yeah," she moaned, riding him faster now. It just felt more natural facing this direction. She could bend forward and press her hands to his shoulders, dig her palms into her chest. He could reach up and grab her tits or move her hair back over her shoulder for her. It was good; it was _so_ good.

"Oh god . . ." she gasped, falling forward, her chest against his. "Oh, Bellamy . . ." The intensity was starting to ratchet up all over her body. It definitely didn't hurt that her clit could rub against his groin like this, but . . . it didn't feel like the pleasure was _just_ centered there. Her arms and legs felt tingly, and her stomach was shuddering.

"You close?" he asked her.

"Yeah." She hadn't cum last time, but she knew she could this time. And she wanted to. God, she wanted to.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so close and so tightly as he thrust his cock up into her. Pretty hard, too. It wasn't hurting her, though. It was rough, but it didn't hurt. In fact, she liked it. She liked it a _lot,_ because it made the tingly parts of her tingle even more. She felt like her whole body was coiling up like a spring, ready to release.

"Fuck," he cursed, breathing raggedly against the side of her face as the thrusts of his hips became more erratic. "Ride it, babe," he told her. "Ride my cock."

Her body felt so spent already, even without cumming, but she wanted to get there so badly that she took over for him, rolling and grinding her ass down on him, taking as much of his length as she could each time. She wanted him to be balls deep inside of her. She wanted all of him. Even then, it wouldn't be enough.

"Oh, Bellamy . . ." she moaned, feeling something start to surge through her. She felt liquid seep out of her pussy, but it was more than that. Waves of pleasure flowed through every inch of her, sort of like a g-spot orgasm, but not exactly. She felt like she was flying apart, and his arms around her were the only thing holding her together.

Good _God._

She was faintly aware of him thrusting up into her a few more times, then a pulsing feeling as he released himself inside her. It wasn't very often that she felt him cum inside, because they were careful with either having him wear condoms or, at the very least, pull out like he had earlier tonight. But there was no need to make him pull out of her ass. He came hard, and she was so attuned to her own body in that moment that she swore she felt it, felt the warmth of him spreading inside her, felt his cock twitching in that hole as he finished up.

It was amazing, but it was a lot. And it left her shaking.

"Don't move," he said, stroking and rubbing his hands all over her back and arms and shoulders. "I got you, okay?"

She lay atop him, still quivering, still panting for air.

"I got you," he assured her again, his body still and steady beneath her own.

Thank God. Thank God he had her. Because she might have gotten lost without him.

...

There wasn't a woman in sight, not even Charmaine, at Grounders the next night. Bellamy had a bad feeling he knew what was going on.

"Tell me this isn't a bachelor party tonight," he said to Murphy.

"It's . . . a bachelor party tonight," Murphy droned. "Sorry."

Bellamy rolled his eyes, wondering why the hell Anya would rent out this place again, probably to one of McCreary's loser friends this time. "Great," he grumbled. "Clarke didn't tell me."

"Probably didn't want you to worry." Murphy shrugged.

Yeah, probably. It didn't matter, though. He looked around at those guys, many of whom showed up there almost every night anymore, and he was worried.

The drinks were flowing that night, and almost every girl who worked there had been called in to dance. One by one, they took the stage, and Clarke was the last of them this time. Bellamy could have handled that, but the part that made his skin crawl was how they were supposed to roam around afterward and actually spend time with the guys again, just like at McCreary's birthday party. Luckily, Clarke made a beeline for the bar, so as long as she stayed there . . .

"You know," she said, revealing an insane amount of cleavage in her skimpy top as she leaned forward, "some of these guys _might_ just be looking for conversation."

He gave her a skeptical look. On a normal night, there were maybe one or two guys who would have been content with just that. But this was a _bachelor_ party. Nobody was just looking for conversation.

"Well, you never know," she said upon seeing his doubt. "Maybe I could find a few of them and just . . ."

That didn't seem like an option when Niylah came up to her and said, "Hey, Clarke, some of the guys over there want pictures with you." She motioned towards the soon-to-be groom and the guys who kept pouring alcohol down his throat. They were probably all porn stars or porn producers or directors or something like that if they were friends with McCreary.

"Oh," she said. "Okay." She hopped down off the barstool and assured Bellamy, "I'll be fine, don't worry."

"You remember how to throw a punch?" he asked her.

"Yes. But I won't let it come to that," she vowed. Whirling around, she'd only taken a few steps before she ran back, leaned across the bar, and kissed him. "Love you," she said before scampering away.

Bellamy smiled, glad that she wasn't hiding it. She didn't care if everyone in there knew she was taken.

He glanced over at Murphy, who was just chuckling and shaking his head at him.

"What?" he said.

"I'm calling it now. Four months," Murphy said, holding up four fingers.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Four months until you propose to her."

Four months . . . really wasn't that long. It'd be hard to save up for a nice enough ring by then. But hell, Clarke was wearing a ring made out of plastic on her finger right now. She wouldn't care how much her engagement ring cost.

He didn't tell Murphy he was right, because he had no way to know when he'd actually pop the question. But he didn't tell him he was wrong, either.

...

Clarke wasn't sure about these guys. Many of them were the same guys who liked to yell horrible, degrading things at her while she was up on stage. And now she had to plaster a smile on her face and take pictures with them? Great.

"Okay, this is fine, but I've got rules, boys," she informed them, feeling like it was best to make her boundaries clear. "Five bucks per picture. Your hand stays on my waist. It does not venture down to my ass or up to my boobs. On my waist. Got it?"

They were already pulling out cash.

"Good." She slid her hair back over her shoulder, stood next to the wall, and motioned for the first person to come up.

It was a good, easy way to make quick cash. With every picture, the waistband of her tiny skirt became more and more stuffed with bills. When one guy's hand slid a little too low, though, she called it off and said she was done. Because she was. Unfortunately, that same guy said, "Hey, how about a little lap dance, gorgeous?"

"I don't do lap dances," she informed him.

"Oh, you could do one for me." He tried to grab her arm, but she yanked it away.

"Not gonna happen." She quickly got away from him, from that whole group altogether, and nearly bumped into Niylah as she wove through the crowd.

"Here," Niylah said, handing her a glass. "You're gonna need some of this stuff to get you through the night."

"Thanks." Clarke wasn't sure what it was, but she took a drink.

After that, she and Niylah decided to stick together. The bachelor party wasn't out of control yet, but _everyone_ was drinking, and it was late, so Clarke had a feeling it could _get_ out of control at any minute. As long as she had another female by her side, she felt like she'd be alright. So they danced together, a bit suggestively just to rake in a few extra dollars, and had there not been dozens of men watching them, it would have been fun.

Working up a sweat in the crowded club, Clarke relocated her drink and downed the rest of it, then kept dancing some more.

She wasn't sure how much time passed between then and the time when she started feeling . . . dizzy. She squeezed her eyes shut, wondering if she was just getting overheated or dehydrated. She'd been dehydrated before, and it sucked, and it'd started out a lot like this. Maybe she just needed to sit down.

Hobbling towards the nearest table, she realized she was having problems keeping her balance, and that made walking . . . difficult. She sort of felt drunk, except . . . she'd only had one drink. Something wasn't right.

"Hey, you okay?" a guy she didn't even know asked her as she held onto the table for support. "You don't look so good."

Who even was he? Glasses and dark hair . . . she didn't even know him. And his face was blurry. Just like the corners of her eyes. "I'm fine," she said, closing her eyes again. She felt like she might fall if she let go of that table.

Thankfully, Niylah followed her to the table, groaning, "Ugh, this is such a sausage-fest. I need some women. I'm so turned off right now."

Her voice sounded . . . sort of muffled. Clarke wasn't even sure if she was hearing her correctly.

"Clarke? You okay?"

She tried to let go of the table, but she felt too weak and wobbly. "I don't feel so good," she managed.

Someone's hand was on her back, but it felt too big to be Niylah's. Was it that guy? Was he still standing there? She didn't even know.

"It's okay, I got her," she heard him say.

But Niylah was having none of that when she snapped back, "Like hell you do." Clarke felt Niylah's hands on her arms, practically dragging her away from the table. She could barely even keep her eyes open to look at her. "Come here," her friend said. "Clarke. Clarke, look at me. What's wrong?"

Her eyelids felt like the weighed a hundred pounds. She just couldn't keep them open. "Get Bellamy," she squeaked out fearfully.

...

Just as he was about to head into the backroom to get more whiskey, Bellamy heard somebody calling his name.

"Bellamy! _Bellamy_!"

He looked out to where Clarke had been, but it wasn't her who was calling for him. It was Niylah and she was . . .

Holy shit, what was wrong with Clarke?

He raced around the bar and shoved aside anyone in his way. "What happened?" he said.

"I don't know, she just looks sick."

"Give her to me." He put one arm around Clarke's waist, holding onto her arms with the other. "Clarke, can you hear me?" Her eyes were closed, and she looked like she might throw up.

Instead of answering, she let out a whimper. And that was it.

"Come on, come here," he said, trying to help her walk out of the middle of that crowd. Her feet dragged on the floor, though, so he just bent down, hooked one hand underneath her knees, and hoisted her up into his arms. "I got you," he assured her. "Don't worry, okay? You're gonna be fine." He carried her into the practice studio, where he could lay her down on the couch, and Niylah followed him.

"Do you think somebody slipped her something?" she fretted.

"I don't know." Gently, he lay his girlfriend down, rolling her over onto her side in case she threw up. "Clarke, please, open your eyes," he begged.

Her eyes stayed shut. And her breathing was kind of . . . shallow.

"She had a drink out there," Niylah said tearfully. "Bellamy, I think . . ." She trailed off, but he understood what she was saying. And he'd seen these symptoms before, in other girls who were victims, just like Clarke.

"Call 911," he said, tossing her his phone. He sprang to his feet, needing to figure out what drug had been given to her. "Who was it?"

"I—I don't know," she stuttered as her fingers shakily pressed the buttons. "That guy with the glasses, maybe?"

Bellamy needed to _do_ something, so the guy with the glasses sounded reasonable to him.

He charged back out into the club, marching straight to the table Clarke had been near. The guy with the glasses was indeed still there, so Bellamy roared, "What the fuck did you do to her?" and then took a swing at him, knocking him down. "Huh?" He stood over him, grabbed his shirt to lift his head up, and then swung again. "What'd you fuckin' slip her?"

That guy tried to cover his face, but blood was already spilling from his nose.

"Answer me!"

"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" he yelled back.

"Then who did?" Bellamy demanded.

"McCreary!"

His blood boiled, and he slipped away from the bouncers as they closed in on him.

"Bellamy!" he heard Anya yell shrilly.

McCreary was standing off in the corner, chatting up one of the other girls, but he cowered when Bellamy grabbed a bottle, smashed it on the table, and then shoved him back against the wall, holding a shard of glass up to his face. "What'd you give her?"

"N-nothing," McCreary stammered. "Just a roofie. She'll be fine."

Bellamy didn't even get to take a swing at him. A much bigger bouncer grabbed his arms, pulling him back. "No!" he screamed, struggling against the strong hold. "Let me go!" The glass fell from his hand, breaking apart even more when it hit the floor.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Anya screamed as the DJ finally cut the music.

"He slipped Clarke something!" Bellamy raged. That son of a bitch was lucky he couldn't hit him right now, because if he started, he'd never stop.

"Down on the ground!" another one of the bouncers ordered McCreary, and when McCreary didn't move fast enough, they shoved him down, pulled his hands behind his back, and held them there, like cops without handcuffs.

People immediately started running towards the door, and Anya whipped out her phone and said, "I'm calling the police. Don't let anybody leave!"

"I'm leaving," Bellamy decided, shaking free of the bouncer's hold. "I'm gettin' Clarke out of here." He ran back into the other room to check on her.

Niylah was sitting beside her, pushing her sweaty hair off her forehead. "The ambulance is on its way," she told him.

"Screw that. I'll get her to the hospital myself." He bent down, trying to pick her up again. Her whole body was totally limp in his arms.

"No, Bellamy, an ambulance can get her there faster. Just wait, okay?" Niylah suggested.

He hated waiting, especially when she looked so bad. But she was breathing, so . . . so he'd wait. For a couple minutes, at least.

"Did you find out what it was?" Niylah asked him.

"A roofie," he growled. "McCreary."

"Oh god." Niylah's face paled with disgust.

There must have been an ambulance close by, because moments later, he heard emergency sirens. He picked Clarke up and hurried her through the club, yelling, "Move. Move!" to anyone in his way. Anya was on the phone with the police, but he heard her gasp, "Oh my god," as he carried Clarke past her.

The paramedics put her on a stretcher and loaded her into the ambulance, and since there was no way Bellamy was letting them take her anywhere without him, he climbed on board, too, grabbing her hand, holding it tightly all the way to the hospital. He wasn't sure if she was aware of anything that was going on or not, but if she was, he wanted her to know that he was there.


	59. Chapter 59

_Chapter 59_

Waking up, Clarke felt like she had the worst hangover of her life. She could barely open her eyes, and when she did, everything was _way_ too bright. She heard a beeping sound, too, that she couldn't quite place. And the blankets covering her and pillow beneath her head . . . they didn't feel like her own.

Something wasn't right.

She forced her eyes open further, squinting against the dim light of a room that wasn't her own. She was in a hospital bed, and that beeping sound was like a monitor or something. She was in a hospital gown, too, and beside her . . . Bellamy was beside her, sitting in a chair he'd pulled up next to the bed, his hands holding hers, his head down on the side of the bed.

 _What_ was going on?

"Bell-" Her voice was so hoarse that his name caught in her throat. She tried again. "Bellamy?"

His head snapped up, and he smiled at her. "Hey," he said quietly. "Hey, Princess."

Since she had no idea what was going on, she figured she'd just ask him. "What happened?" she squeaked out. "Why are we here?"

"You don't remember?" he asked back.

She felt too tired to shake her head, so she just said, "No."

He swallowed hard, squeezing her hand, and said, "You were at the club. For the bachelor party."

"I remember that." She remembered taking pictures with some guys, but after that, things were a little hazy.

"Somebody slipped something in your drink," he told her.

Her stomach clenched in alarm.

"It's okay," he said quickly. "I mean, it's not _okay_ , but . . . Niylah and I took care of you. Nobody laid a hand on you."

 _Oh, thank God,_ she thought, faintly recalling that she _had_ had a drink in her hand. If she'd set it down, even just for a second, it would have been easy for someone to drop something in there. "What was it?" she asked him.

"A roofie," he replied.

She wasn't up on all the street slang for drugs, but that one was . . . unfortunately well-known. "Isn't that . . ." She trailed off, reluctant to say it.

"The date rape drug," he filled in for her.

 _Oh, god._ She felt sick to her stomach.

"The doctors wanna keep you here tonight, just to monitor you, but they got it out of your system," he told her. "They said you'll be able to go home tomorrow. You'll be tired, and you might have a headache and a stomach ache. But you'll be alright."

She managed to nod, feeling like . . . she could handle those side effects. But she shouldn't have _had_ to. No girl deserved to deal with this. "Who would give me that?" she wondered. She knew those guys were pretty much low-lifes, but this was a brand new low.

"McCreary," he answered. "They arrested him. He can't hurt you, okay? I won't ever let him hurt you."

Oh, she knew that. And as much as it freaked her out to know that someone had attempted this, she didn't feel unsafe right now. Not here, not with her boyfriend. "I'm tired, Bellamy," she said, struggling to keep her eyes open. This was all . . . a little too much right now. Everything still felt heavy, including her eyelids.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.

Eyes shutting, she said, "You won't leave me, right?"

"No. I'll be right here," he assured her. "I promise." His hands stayed on hers, and he scooted the chair even closer to the side of the bed. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she heard him crying as she drifted back to sleep.

...

Clarke felt like crap, and only halfway rested, when she woke up in the morning. She knew instantly that she wasn't in her own bed, but it took her a moment to remember that she was in the hospital. When she opened her eyes, she looked around at the unfamiliar walls and furniture, the scratchy blanket covering her legs, and the machines to her right. To her left, Bellamy was no longer there.

Sitting up, she spotted him outside the room, talking to . . . somebody. A detective? A police officer? It was hard to say. She didn't have a good view of the other man, but he definitely wasn't dressed like a doctor.

She reached over to the table connected to her bed, grabbed a glass of water some kind soul had been generous enough to put out for her, and took a drink. God, that water felt good on her dry throat. She didn't want to drink too much of it, though, because her stomach was rumbling a bit, and she felt sort of . . . nauseous.

It didn't Bellamy long to notice she was awake. When he did, he came right back into the room and said, "Hey. How you feelin'?"

She shrugged. "Still kind of out of it, but . . . better."

He sat back down in the chair he'd probably slept in and took her hand in his, giving it a loving squeeze. "I'm glad you're awake," he said.

Personally, she would have loved to have kept sleeping, but since it probably made him feel better to be able to talk to her and interact with her, she was glad she was awake, too.

The other man shuffled into the room and introduced himself. "Clarke, I'm officer Cruz," he said. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about last night?"

"Does she have to do that right now?" Bellamy said before she could answer. "She just woke up."

"No, it's fine," she said, figuring it was best to just get it done. "But I don't really remember much."

"Just tell me what you can," Officer Cruz urged. "The man who did this to you . . . he's already confessed. Dozens of witnesses to back it up, so there's no real point in him denying it. I just need to get your official statement so we can proceed with his punishment."

Well, she was all for McCreary getting punished, whether it was with jail time or community service or a hefty fine. Maybe all three of them. Was that too much to ask? "Okay," she said, ready to answer . . . whatever she could.

There weren't many questions, because there wasn't much she could remember. She told Officer Cruz how she knew McCreary—she _didn't_ know him, really, and she didn't care to—and she told him about some of the lewd, suggestive things he'd said to her before. Bellamy didn't know about all those, so she could tell by his body language that it made him uncomfortable to hear it. She told him everything she could remember about last night, and when he didn't have any further questions, Officer Cruz said, "I'm very sorry this happened to you."

She nodded, determined not to cry or get worked up. When she was at home, then maybe it'd hit her, the full gravity of the situation and how bad it _could_ have been. But not here, not now.

When the officer was gone and it was just the two of them, Bellamy grumbled, "It wasn't something that happened; it was something McCreary _did_."

"But it's over now," she said. "Right?" The last thing she wanted was for this to drag out like that shit with Roan had. McCreary was a creep, but McCreary was being dealt with. End of story.

"Yeah," Bellamy said. "I might have to . . ." He made a face. "I don't know. Turns out I broke a guy's nose last night. And then I held some broken glass up to McCreary's face, but . . ."

Clarke's eyes widened in alarm. "They're not gonna charge you with anything, right?"

"Well, I might have to pay the nose guy's medical bills, but . . . it's fine," he said with a nonchalant shrug. "All that matters is that you're gonna be okay." Reaching out, he stroked her hair, pushing some of it away from her forehead, grazing his calloused fingers against her skin.

"Can we just go home now?" she asked him quietly. She felt crappy, but not to the point where she needed to be in the hospital. She needed to be home in her own bed where she cold rest and . . . try to forget this ever happened.

Apparently Bellamy had ridden to the hospital in the ambulance with her, because Murphy had to come get them. He dropped them off back at the club, where they proceeded to get into Bellamy's car and drive home. Clarke thanked Murphy, who, it seemed, had been genuinely worried about her, because he'd even picked her up a 'Get Well Soon' card. Emori and Niylah had both sent her a few worried texts, telling her to let them know if she needed anything. She texted them back a thank you for checking up on her but assured them that Bellamy would take good care of her.

"I have a feeling I'm not gonna be much fun today," she predicted when they lumbered into their apartment.

"That's alright," he said, his arm securely around her as they walked slowly to the bedroom. "You heard what the doctor said. Just take it easy."

"Yeah. I can do that." That bed was such a welcoming sight. She sat down on it, kicked off her shoes, and mumbled, "Too bad I couldn't throw a punch to stop this one, huh?" She cracked a sad smile, really wishing that her self-defense practice would have helped her last night.

"That's not funny," Bellamy said, frowning.

"I gotta try to laugh," she told him, "'cause if I don't . . ." If she didn't try to laugh, then she'd start crying, and she didn't want to waste any tears on McCreary's attempted date rape scheme. It hadn't worked, and from now on, she'd be more careful. So . . . lesson learned. Not that she'd _needed_ someone to teach her a lesson. She just . . . she couldn't let herself wallow in self-pity.

His phone vibrated, and when he pulled it out of his pocket and looked at who had texted him, he groaned and rolled his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's Anya," he answered. "She wants to see me."

 _Oh, no,_ Clarke thought. That didn't sound good. "Well, you should go," she suggested. Maybe if he went and talked to her sooner rather than later, there was a way he could salvage his job.

"But I wanna stay with you," he protested.

As much as she would have loved to have just curled up with him and fallen back asleep, there was gonna be some fallout because of all of this. And if she wasn't up to going out and dealing with it, then he kind of had to. "I'm just gonna go back to sleep," she told him. "Go, straighten things out with her . . . I'll be here when you get back."

He slowly slid his phone back in his pocket, looking reluctant. "You sure?"

"Yes." If it didn't go his way . . . it'd be a pretty quick conversation.

Mulling it over a bit, he sighed heavily, bent down, and gave her a quick kiss. "I love you," he told her.

"I love you, too."

"Wish me luck," he muttered, turning and leaving the bedroom.

"Good luck," she called, feeling like he was going to need it. If he'd broken an innocent guy's nose last night, there was no way Anya was going to just let that go. She was going to drill into him, and when it was all said and done . . . Bellamy probably wouldn't have a job anymore.

...

Things were looking bleak when it came to the whole employment situation. Bellamy knew he'd already burned some bridges with his boss this year, and this time . . . this time, it was like he'd burned the whole fucking Brooklyn Bridge with her. Hell if he cared, though. He wasn't gonna limp into that club like a dog with its tail between its legs. No, he was proud of what he'd done. And he'd do it all again.

Anya didn't look very good when he got there. She was sitting on the edge of the stage, drinking straight from the bottle. She barely glanced up when he walked in, but she did ask, "Is she okay?"

Well, at least she was decent enough to ask about Clarke before she fired him. "She'll be fine," he told her. "I think."

Lifting her head, she asked, "What do you mean?" shakily.

"She's tired right now, but physically, she's okay," he explained. "Emotionally . . ." He wasn't sure how something like this affected a girl, but he _was_ sure he'd be there to help her through it. "She'll be tough, but she shouldn't have to be."

Anya nodded in agreement, taking another swig. "Well, we're gonna put some extra precautions in place from now on," she assured him. "No more mingling with the men. No more renting out the club for special occasions. And anyone who was here last night . . . I'm never allowing them back."

It all sounded good in theory, but he knew better than to assume it'd work. "I'm sure it'll just be a worker's paradise from now on," he said sarcastically.

"I'm trying, okay?" she said. "Nothing like this has ever happened before. Not to one of my girls."

"I'm sure it has," he said, wondering how many guys Ontari had hooked up with prior to becoming Roan's girl. "You just never knew about it."

Anya's eyes shimmered. With actual tears. Bellamy could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his boss look like she might cry before. "But I've tried so hard," she insisted. "I've tried to run a place where they're looked after and safe."

"Well, it didn't work," he snapped, not about to let her sit there and feel sorry for herself, not when Clarke was the victim in this whole scenario. "They're not safe here. Everybody knows that. You give 'em these brands, make 'em into products. You _sell_ them."

Anya's eyes widened, and she tensed up as he dropped all those truth bombs.

"You keep saying you care, but you let in these guys who don't give a damn about 'em," he said accusatorily. "Any standards this place used to have . . . they're all gone now. And you know who suffers most for that? Girls like Clarke."

"If I had known what was gonna happen last night, I would've . . ."

"You would've what?" he cut in angrily. "Not let any of those guys in? Shut down for the night?" No, that wouldn't have happened. Anya's priority was her business, and making money off of it. "Just to start it all back up the next night, I'm sure."

"No," she said. "We're closed tonight."

"And what about tomorrow night, huh?" he challenged, and she said nothing to that. "Let's face it, Anya: You don't wanna let your Number One go. So a couple days from now, she's gonna get a call from you asking if she's ready to come back to work again. Isn't that right?"

Anya didn't deny it. She set the bottle down, stood up, and muttered, "I'll try not to pressure her."

"That's all anyone ever does here is pressure her!" he roared, shocked that she could be so blind to that. "She's gotta look the best and be the best every single night, and nobody even fucking cares about what it's doing to her!"

"You care," she pointed out. "You care so much, you'd probably do anything for her."

"I would." He made a face. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not," she acknowledged. "But in this kind of environment . . . it might be. I mean, you looked like you could've killed that man last night, Bellamy."

"You mean the son of a bitch who roofied her?" He snorted. "Yeah, I probably could've."

"Do you _understand_ why I can't have that at my club? Do you get that?"

"Yeah, I understand that your club is your priority, like always," he snarled. "I understand that this place matters more to you than Clarke ever could."

"Don't say that," she growled, shaking her head angrily. "I care about Clarke. I don't want anything bad to happen to her."

"It's already happened!" he yelled, feeling like, the louder he was, the better chance he'd have of opening her eyes to the realities of this place. "It wasn't just last night; it's _been_ happening. If you don't realize that, then . . . then you're an idiot." She already knew that things had gone down with Roan. She had to know that McCreary and Charmaine had lured Vivian out of there and that they'd tried to lure Clarke out of there, too. She had to know that, even if nobody laid a hand on her, those words that Clarke heard every time she was up on stage hurt.

"Bellamy . . . I think you know where I'm going with all of this," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

Yeah, he did. He fucking knew.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, shaking her head regretfully. "I care about you, too, but . . . it's too much of a risk to have you working here."

"A risk to you," he grumbled.

"A risk to this whole-"

"You know who it's not a risk to? Clarke, because I'm the only person here who actually fucking cares about her," he claimed.

"I have to let you go," she said tearfully, and again, she apologized. "I'm really sorry."

He clenched his jaw, trying to refrain from saying something _especially_ mean. Because he didn't actually hate Anya; he just hated that she'd ever given his girlfriend a job here. "And Clarke?" he asked, feeling like he already knew the answer.

She looked down at her feet for a few seconds, then back at him. "I told you once that it's easier to find a new bartender than a new stripper," she reminded him.

He remembered that conversation, remembered it vividly, actually. And even back then, he'd always sort of known that this was the route things would go, that he'd do something to get himself fired, but Anya wouldn't fire Clarke, too. No, Clarke was way too valuable to her.

...

Although she was tired, Clarke couldn't fall back asleep. What the hell? She was in her own bed again, and sleep just didn't come. She had a feeling it was because she had Bellamy on her brain. She kept imagining what he and Anya were saying to each other, how that conversation was going. It couldn't have been pleasant.

He called not long after he'd left, and she sat up to answer her phone. "Hey," she said.

"Hey. Sorry to wake you."

"No, I wasn't even sleeping." Her stomach twisted itself into knots as she asked, "Everything alright?" Because she knew it wasn't.

"No, not really," he said. "I, uh . . . I got fired."

She winced as the inevitable came true. "Oh, Bellamy . . ."

"It's okay," he said. "I'm gonna go fill out some applications at some other bars, though. You doin' alright?"

"Yeah." She hated the thought of him going to work somewhere else, of him not being there while she . . . while she . . . "Bellamy, I'm really sorry," she whispered.

"No, please . . . you don't have anything to be sorry for," he assured her.

Didn't she, though? He'd gotten fired because of her. If she'd never shown up at that club, he'd still have a job.

"I'll be home soon," he said, "alright?"

"Alright. Bye."

"Bye."

She set her phone aside, sighing, trying to see the glass half full. Maybe Bellamy would luck out in finding another job. Maybe, while he was out applying today, he'd stumble across something way better. _Maybe_ he'd go on another audition and get some huge part in something. Even though he'd talked about being ready to give up on acting, he was so talented. He deserved more chances at making it big.

It wasn't fun feeling like he was paying the price just for loving her, but . . . at the same time, it sparked something within her. Something that felt . . . decisive. And determined. She picked up her phone again, dialed Niylah, and waited for her friend and coworker to answer.

"Hey, you," Niylah said, picking up after only the second ring. "Oh my god, how are you? Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah, just kinda drowsy," Clarke said. "Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Sure," Niylah replied without hesitation, "anything."

Since she was too tired to get behind the wheel or walk anywhere, she said, "I need a ride," hoping that her friend could come get her and get her back home before Bellamy got back.

Niylah must have been in the neighborhood, because she was there in minutes. Clarke told her to take her to the club, and when they got there, Niylah turned the car off and asked, "You want me to just wait out here then?"

"Yeah," Clarke said, feeling like this wouldn't take long. "Thanks." She got out of the car, took a deep breath, and went inside. It didn't seem like anyone was there, but there were some lights on. "Anya?" she called.

Her boss came out of the back room a few seconds later, a look of utter relief on her face. "Oh, Clarke," she said, rushing towards her. She hugged her, apologizing, "I'm so sorry," before stepping back and asking the question that it seemed like _everyone_ was going to be asking her today: "How are you?"

"I feel like I have the worst hangover of my life," Clarke replied. After all this, she didn't even want alcohol anymore. Screw that. Bellamy had had it right with the whole club soda thing all along.

"I was reading up on recovery," Anya said. "Sounds like you may be a little out of it for a couple days."

"Yeah." She wasn't looking forward to being in a fog for half a week, but hopefully it cleared up sooner than that.

"Just take it easy, get some rest," Anya said. "Let Bellamy take care of you."

Clarke nodded slowly, sensing a segue. "Sounds like he'll have lots of time to do that since he doesn't have a job anymore," she bit out.

Her boss sighed. "Clarke . . . I didn't have a choice," she claimed forlornly. "I know why he did what he did last night, but . . . he's so close to crossing a line. I'm not just thinking about my club here; I'm thinking about him, too."

"Are you really?" Clarke challenged.

"Yes. I don't want him to snap on one of these guys."

"Not even if they deserve it?" She didn't want Bellamy to completely lose it on someone, either, but if he'd decided to make McCreary's face into his personal punching bag last night, would that have really been so bad? "Look . . . I get that you're a businesswoman," she said, trying, as best she could, to understand where Anya was coming from. "Your job is to run this club. But Bellamy and I . . . our job is to look after each other, so I really don't think you can blame him for doing what he did last night. I don't think it's fair to fire him for it."

Again, Anya shook her head and apologized. "I'm sorry, Clarke," she said, "but I'm not changing my mind."

 _And neither am I,_ Clarke thought, accepting that there would be no getting Bellamy his job back. "I know," she said. "That's not why I'm here. I'm here to let you know that . . ." She gulped, excited but nervous at the same time to finally do this, to say it. "I'm leaving, too," she blurted. And once it was out, it felt like a weight was lifted off her shoulders. "It was never gonna last more than a couple more months anyway, but after last night . . ." She shivered at the thought of last night. It was all left up to her imagination, since she couldn't remember. "It just seems like it's time to put an end to the Girl Next Door."

Anya's whole expression just . . . shifted. Into one of complete and utter alarm. "Clarke, I want you to know that I'm committed to making this club a safer, more secure working environment," she promised, "for all of you."

"And I hope you do that. Really." The girls like Niylah and Sunset, who were staying, and the new girls who came in, deserved to be as safe as possible. "I just won't be around for it," she said, not willing to let anything change her mind. "Even if you hadn't fired Bellamy, we'd still be having this same conversation." Last night had been a turning point in her career as an exotic dancer, and not a good one. She wasn't going to put herself in those kinds of situations anymore; she wanted something better. "I can't be Number One anymore," she said, her voice cracking with an emotion she couldn't quite label or identify. "I can't keep doing this. I don't resent you or have any ill will towards you or anything. I know you do care about all of us, but . . ." She let out a shuddering breath. "Too many things have happened here. So I'm done. I have to be."

Anya stared at her sadly, but slowly, surely, she nodded her head. "I understand," she said evenly.

"I'll put on one more show," Clarke offered. "That's it. A last hurrah just like Harper had. And to be honest, the only reason I'm even willing to do that is because . . . I'm gonna need some money." She had no idea what she was going to do for a job now. Waitressing was a last resort, but she wouldn't be surprised if she ended up back at Dropship, asking Emori to put in a good word for her.

"You'll find another job," Anya assured her, sounding a lot more confident about that than Clarke felt. "Somewhere better than this."

"I hope so," she whispered. It wasn't a dig at the club or at Anya or anything. It was just . . . the truth. She _did_ want to work somewhere better than this. She was tired of taking her clothes off for cash. "So do whatever you need to do," she urged. "Promote the hell out of it. But please, don't let in the guys who . . . you know the guys I'm talking about."

"I won't," Anya assured her. "You have my word."

"Because I haven't really hated everything." Clarke blinked back tears, remembering how blindly optimistic and naïve she'd been when she'd started. "I do love dancing, and even this type of dancing . . . I think it can be really beautiful." When it had just been her and Harper practicing together and perfecting their skills, she'd actually had a lot of fun with it. But the crowd made everything different. "I wanna do my last show my way," she said. "And then I wanna move on."

Anya maintained eye contact with her, nodding again. She even smiled a bit, looking sort of . . . proud. Which Clarke hadn't expected. "You will," she said. "You'll move on."

Clarke managed a smile back at her, glad to have her support in this decision rather than her disdain.

...

It probably would have been a good idea to go pick up a few applications, but since Clarke wasn't driving and since she wasn't feeling the greatest, she had Niylah bring her back home after leaving Grounders. Niylah didn't ask her if she'd quit, but she seemed to know. Because as they drove, she asked, "Who's gonna be Number One now?"

Clarke shrugged. "Maybe you." She wasn't sure if she wanted that for Niylah or not, though. On the one hand . . . yeah, it meant she'd make more money. But on the other hand . . . it was just so dangerous.

Even though she wasn't particularly hungry, Clarke scoured the kitchen that afternoon for some crackers. She found only Goldfish, which would do. She just needed something that would be easy on her stomach. She ate a couple handfuls, and that was enough.

When Bellamy got home, he seemed surprised to see her there in the kitchen. "Hey, you're up," he said.

"Yeah. Thought I'd try to eat a little something, but . . . I'm not very hungry." She stashed the Goldfish back next to the half-eaten bag of popcorn and asked him, "How'd it go?"

He flapped his arms against his sides. "I drove around for an hour. Nobody's hiring. At least nobody who would even consider hiring me."

Well, that was . . . discouraging, but it was a big city. Somebody somewhere was definitely going to be impressed by Bellamy Blake. "You'll find something," she assured him.

"Yeah. I'll ask around." He came towards her, putting his hands on her waist, and pulled her closer. "Clarke, I think we should talk about whether it's a good idea for you to-"

"I quit," she interrupted.

His eyes widened.

"Niylah drove me to the club, and I talked to Anya, and I quit today," she told him.

Eyebrows arching in disbelief, he spat, "Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

He choked out a laugh, then smiled and said, "Come here," as he pulled her in for a hug. "Oh, Clarke . . ."

"I knew you'd be happy." Truth be told . . . she was kind of happy, too.

"Damn right," he said, stepping back a bit. "If I'd known this was all it'd take for you to quit, I would've gotten fired a long time ago."

"Well, I mean, that _was_ part of it," she admitted, "but . . . I thought about it today, and I realized . . . screw five more months. I can't go back to working there, not after what happened." She shook her head, just not willing to put herself at risk like that again. What if Niylah and Bellamy hadn't have been there? Something really bad could have happened to her. " _Too much_ has happened, and I don't wanna be one of those girls who just gets used to it," she said. "I'm tired of it, Bellamy."

"Good," he said, smiling. "I'm so proud of you."

"Really?" She whimpered nervously. "'cause I only agreed to one more show, so technically neither one of us has a job now."

"That's okay," he said.

"We're gonna be so broke."

"That's okay, too," he repeated.

"And I don't even know what kind of job I'm gonna go get now."

"That's _okay_ , Clarke," he said again. "We'll be broke but happy." Grinning from ear to ear, he kissed her, and all her anxiety about the whole situation just . . . fell away. When he kissed her like that, she felt just as excited as he did. Financially, yes, there would be stress and probably some tough times, but they'd make it work. They had each other. And really, that was the only thing that mattered.


	60. Chapter 60

_Chapter 60_

Anya hit the ground running when it came to promoting Clarke's last show—there was a big banner outside the club and flyers on the tops of people's windshields—but Clarke was way more concerned with finding another job. She wasn't exactly looking to hop on the subway or make a huge drive through the big city every day, so she stuck closer to home, deciding she'd branch out only if she had to. Surely she could find _something_ that wasn't too far away.

Her first stop was Dropship, which . . . wasn't ideal, but at least Emori was there so she could talk to her about it.

"Oh, trust me, Clarke, you don't wanna work here," Emori said as she cleaned off an especially messy table. "I mean, you remember how horrible it is. You don't wanna come back."

Yeah, she'd hated that job, but she'd never really given it much of a chance. Maybe it would be more bearable now that she'd gone and done . . . other things. "I might need to, though," she said. "I can't just be unemployed."

"Aim higher then," Emori suggested. "This place sucks. I'm plotting my escape."

"Seriously?" Hadn't Emori worked there, like, forever?

"Yeah." Emori lowered her voice, looked over both shoulders, then said quietly, "There's a new restaurant opening up down the street. Apparently they _don't_ treat their employees like shit, so I wanna go work there."

"Okay, so when you leave, this place is gonna have to hire someone new," Clarke said, sensing an opportunity. "Maybe you could put in a good word for me?"

Her friend sighed heavily. "Clarke, you're not gonna get hired back here," she informed her.

"Why not? You have a new manager, right?"

"Yeah, but he's an ass just like the old one," Emori muttered, rolling her eyes.

"But he's an ass who doesn't know I quit once," Clarke pointed out.

"Yeah, but he knows you're the girl from the strip club across the street." Emori motioned over to Grounders and said, "Look at that, Clarke. Look at your picture in the window."

Clarke did look, and . . . yeah, it was something. A can't-miss kind of picture, and she _did_ think she looked hot in it, but . . . not like a natural kind of hot. She was all done up in that photo, but most of the time, she felt sexiest in one of Bellamy's shirts with very little makeup on.

"You can't quit working there and then just come work here," Emori said, shrugging simply.

"Why not?" Clarke challenged.

"Because all those guys who salivate over you would come here, too. And that just sounds like drama to me," Emori replied. "I mean, at least there you're up on stage. Can you imagine how many times you'd get smacked on the ass here?"

Clarke frowned, hating to admit that . . . Emori was right. The proximity was a recipe for disaster. Even though Grounders wasn't the safe haven Anya wanted it to be, at least there were boundaries there. Without those boundaries, any of her 'fans' who swung by and got something to eat would just try to exploit her. They'd spank her and grab at her, and if the manager was truly an ass, like Emori claimed, then there probably wasn't anything that he would do about it.

She left Dropship feeling discouraged but resigned to it not working out. She'd just have to try somewhere else. Somewhere a little farther away from Grounders, where her clean slate could be a little bit cleaner.

As she walked to her car, Harper FaceTimed her, and Clarke was so glad to hear from her best friend. It'd only been a week and a half without her, and already, she missed her so much. "Hey, Beach Babe," she said. "How's Kansas?"

"Not so beachy, but I'm still loving it," Harper answered cheerfully. "Guess what?"

"What?" Surely she and Monty weren't engaged . . . yet.

"I got a job!" Harper exclaimed. "At the university."

"What? That's great." _Holy crap,_ she thought as she got into her car. Harper was getting her life in place _fast_.

"Yeah, I'm gonna be the assistant trainer for the volleyball team. I'm pretty stoked."

"Yeah, you should be. That's awesome," Clarke said.

"Thanks. Monty's taking me out for dinner tonight to celebrate."

Clarke smiled, tilting the screen so the sun wasn't creating a glare on it and she could see her friend better. "Such a charmer, my little Monty."

"Yeah." Harper blushed, laughing a little, then inquired, "So what about you? What's new there?"

"Oh, um . . ." She didn't quite have the same type of news to share. It was the opposite. "Well, a lot of things, actually," she said. "Bellamy got fired. I quit."

"What?" Harper gasped.

"Yeah. Not just _because_ he got fired, but I mean, yeah, that factored into it," she admitted. "But it was just time to go. Things got kinda . . . out of hand the other night, so now I'm just doing one more show, and then I'm done." As terrifying as it was facing the prospect of _not_ having a job, it felt sort of liberating, too. Grounders hadn't been _all_ bad, but lately, it'd been rough. A lot of things had happened there that she didn't care to remember.

"Wow," Harper said, looking astonished, but she didn't probe with questions. "That's . . . sudden."

Clarke nodded. Yep, it was. Because McCreary had _suddenly_ decided to slip her the date rape drug.

"Good for you, though," Harper said. "You got another job lined up?"

"Not really. Neither does Bellamy, so . . ." Their lives were just nowhere near as organized as Harper's, or Monty's, or anybody's, really. Even Murphy and Emori, baby on the way and everything, were looking more financially stable than she and Bellamy were right now.

Harper sort of half-cringed, the kind of look she got on her face when she felt sorry for someone but wasn't _trying_ to look like she was feeling sorry for them.

"Look, I know you, and I know you feel bad about _your_ new job now, but please don't," Clarke said to her. "You deserve every opportunity that comes your way."

Slowly, Harper smiled. "Thanks, Clarke," she said. "And don't worry, you and Bellamy will figure stuff out."

They sort of had to. There wasn't another alternative. "Yeah, the plan is to make enough money at my last show to keep us covered for the rest of the month," she said, "and then we can go out and apply everywhere."

"You're not gonna go work at another strip club, are you?" Harper made a face.

"No. No more strip clubs." Her days of dancing on a pole were over. Unless she was doing it for fun at some type of fitness class. Or for Bellamy. Never again for all those people. Never again for money.

"Good," Harper said, sounding proud, "because . . . there's so much other stuff out there, Clarke. All you gotta do is go find it."

Clarke looked around, at all the big buildings, the cars, the people. Noise and pollution and traffic. That was what was out _here_ in this part of the city. Harper was somewhere else now, and she seemed so happy to be there. It wasn't that Clarke was _un_ happy to be in New York City; it was just that . . . the place still didn't feel _completely_ like home.

Thankfully, Bellamy Blake did.

...

Out of pure, dumb luck, Bellamy stumbled upon a commercial audition that afternoon. It was for some new, unknown brand of detergent. Probably wasn't even good detergent, but hell, he didn't care. Most of the bars he'd swung by either hadn't been hiring or were hiring only for lousy-paying daytime shifts, so he needed something. A commercial. A photo shoot. Anything to bring in a little extra cash.

"Hi, I'm Bellamy Blake," he said to the two casting directors when he finally got back into the audition room. Neither one of them said anything, so he went on introducing himself. "I'm twenty-three, lived in New York for the past couple years." Still no response, so he tried to fill the empty space with more talking. "But I'm originally from . . ." He trailed off when he noticed the woman squinting her eyes at him. "What?"

The woman leaned over, whispered something to the man sitting next to her, and he nodded in agreement. "You're too good-looking," he told Bellamy. "We need more of an every-man. Next!"

The next person in line immediately came into the room, but Bellamy wasn't about to just give up. "Wait a minute, I just stood in line for an hour," he told them. "You're not even gonna let me audition?"

"Sorry," the woman said. "Try porn or something. Next!"

 _Porn or something?_ They had to be kidding. What the fuck was wrong with this industry? Most of the time, he was too 'dark' for a role, but now he was _too good-looking?_ That was a problem somehow?

He felt pretty defeated when he left that non-audition, and he wasn't proud of where he drove. He'd only been to Pike's house a few times, but he remembered the way, and he showed up without warning.

Pike answered the door when he rang the doorbell, and he was dressed casually, looked like he may have just woken up. "Well, well, well," he said, "look what the cat dragged in."

"I need help," Bellamy confessed right away, feeling like such a loser for not even being able to land a fucking detergent commercial today. "I can't get a part, and I just got fired from my bartending job."

Pike's eyebrows arched. "I bet you're really wishing you took that film over in Europe now."

"No." He'd barely even thought about that. "No, I don't regret-"

"Throwing your career away for the girl you love?" Pike cut in.

If that really was what he'd done, then no, he didn't regret it for a second. "I don't care if I ever become an actor anymore, alright?" he said, willing to move on from that dream. "I just need some money coming in. So acting gigs, modeling gigs, anything you can recommend, I'm down to try it."

Pike folded his arms, taking up the whole doorway, trying to look bigger than he was. "Well, now, Bellamy, you know how this works," he said. "I don't do you these favors for free."

He rolled his eyes. "I can't afford to pay you right now," he admitted. Money was pretty tight for him and Clarke right now. They didn't have extra just lying around. "Please, just . . . can you help me just this once, and I'll pay you back when I can?" he practically begged.

"I get the money, you get my help," Pike said sternly. "But until then, I've got new talent to manage."

New talent? Those words hit Bellamy like a knife in the gut. The one piece of leverage that he'd always had over Pike was that Pike had needed _him._ What good was a talent agent, after all, without any talent? "So I just have to fend for myself then," he said, and Pike didn't disagree. Well, great. This had been a bust. "Thanks for nothing," he muttered, sulking back the way he had come. He'd have to figure something out without any help. Even if it meant taking one of those daytime bartending gigs and getting a second job somewhere else. Fast food or retail or something. Those jobs sucked, but . . . he had to do what he had to do.

He drove around some more that afternoon, picking up dozens of applications, not sure which ones he'd actually end up filling out, and then went to Grounders. Because where else was he going to go tonight? It was Clarke's last show, and Anya had been promoting it for days. There were going to be a lot of people there, and he was going to make sure he was one of them. Just in case things got out of control.

He had to stand in line with everyone else, and he was glad to see that at least Anya was standing at the door with the doorman, directing him on who to allow him and who to turn away. When he got to the front of the line, she gave him a look, and he reminded her, "I'm a paying customer," and held out his money. He had just as much of a right to be there as everyone else.

It took her a moment, but she relented. "Let him in."

The doorman stepped aside, and in he went, feeling like . . . like he was an outsider there now. He didn't work there, but he wasn't there for the same reason all those other people were, either.

"Bellamy," Anya said, grabbing his arm to pull him back.

He spun around and saw that she was handing him back his cash, letting him in for free. He definitely wasn't too proud to turn it down, especially not right now, so he took the money from her and shoved it back in his pocket.

He sauntered through the club, unused to seeing it from this vantage point. Murphy and Atom were at the bar, and Niylah was helping them out. Probably just for tonight, though. Tonight was all about Clarke, but once she was done, then Niylah was the girl whose posters would be in the windows. Right? She was the one they were all expecting to step up and take the reins. Hopefully it all worked out for her. Bellamy worried less about her than he did about Clarke. Niylah was older, and the fact that she was an out and proud lesbian . . . it made her less attainable.

He half-waved at Murphy, who couldn't really do much but wave back, because he was swamped at the bar. Even though he didn't work there anymore, he figured it wouldn't do any harm to check on Clarke, see what she was up to. He knew she'd be in the back, so he moseyed on back there, glad to see that the door to the rehearsal room was shut and they'd positioned one of the biggest bouncers at it. He stepped aside for Bellamy, though, and let him in.

Clarke was just wearing Spandex shorts and a t-shirt when he peeked in at her. She wasn't all dressed up in some ridiculous costume, and her hair was in a messy ponytail. She was twisting and twirling all around that pole, and she looked like she was in the zone. So in the zone that she didn't even hear him come in.

"You really are a good dancer," he told her.

She stopped spinning but stayed up on the pole and smiled at him. "Thanks." Then she slid down to her feet and said, "I'm gonna throw all the tricks tonight. All the complicated moves. Not that anyone's gonna care, but . . ."

He put his hands on her waist, smirking. "Your show, your way, right?"

"That's right," she said with an affirmative nod, resting her hands on his chest. "Wait 'til you see what I'm wearing. And the music . . . it's gonna be good."

Oh, he was sure it would be. Every time Clarke got up there, she did a good job. Maybe a little _too_ good. "And then it's gonna be over," he said, savoring the thought.

"Yes," she said. "Don't get into any fights out there, okay?"

"No, I won't," he promised. "I think this is the old clientele."

"Thank God," she said. "They're . . . less repulsive."

They still weren't saints, though, and they both knew that. Whether they were guys like McCreary and Roan or guys who just came, watched, and went on their way, they were all there for the same reason: to watch her take her clothes off.

"I gotta go get ready," she said, backing away from him towards the dressing room. "But the show's gonna be for you, okay?"

For him? God, he wished it was only him watching. "Okay," he said, finding himself intrigued by what she'd prepared then. Whatever it was, it wasn't for anyone else there but him. That made him feel . . . a little bit better about the whole thing.

...

Clarke recalled her first time getting up on stage and performing. It all seemed so long ago now. Back then, she hadn't known what to expect, hadn't known everything that club had in store for her. She'd been . . . different back then. A lot more naïve. She sort of wished that hadn't been stripped away—no pun intended—but . . . well, it had. And now here she was, ready to step out there one last time, this time for a big sendoff. She hadn't peeked out through the curtains, but she knew there were a lot of people there. More than a typical show.

No longer feeling like the same girl who'd strutted her stuff to a Britney Spears song, Clarke closed her eyes and focused on just breathing as the noise died down and Anya took to the mic.

"Alright, you know her, you _love_ her, and for last time, here she is," she introduced slowly. "Give it up for our _Girl Next Door!_ "

That was her, and that was all she'd ever be to them. A persona, a nickname. Number One. No one out there _really_ knew her. Except Bellamy.

She smiled, thinking of him, and brushed through the curtains and out onto the stage, eyes searching for him right away.

The crowd was excited, but they quieted down when the subdued music began to play. Not that she expected any of them to notice or care about the song, but it was an acoustic cover of "Chandelier" by Sia. Not just any cover, either, but _her_ cover. She'd recorded it the other day and told—not requested, but told—Luna and Anya that this was one of the songs she was dancing to.

She walked slowly and seductively around the pole, managing to find Bellamy in the middle of the crowd. Unlike everyone else there, he recognized her voice immediately in the song, and that brought a smile to his face. So did the shirt she was wearing, which was one of _his_ shirts, one of his only nice ones, in fact. It was a white button-down that was very big on her, but he never wore it. So she'd figured she might as well. No shoes. Little makeup. No fancy hairstyle. In her heart, she wasn't the Girl Next Door tonight. She was just _his_ girl, and she was dancing for _her_ boyfriend. Nothing else.

Even though she wasn't sure what some of the spins she was doing were called, she did them anyway, testing the physical limitations of her own body, just to see what she could really do when all the lights were on and the crowd was quiet. She flung herself around that pole, sometimes holding on with both hands, other times just with one. She fanned her legs, wrapped them around the pole, got herself into all sorts of intricate, twisted positions. Nothing was choreographed, but that was always when it felt the best. When she could just climb up that pole, let go with both legs, and use her upper body strength to hold herself away from it, she felt strong, and when she could roll her lower body like a mermaid tail, she felt graceful. When she could turn herself upside down, hit the splits with both feet against the pole, and still spin, she felt talented. When she could coil her whole body around that pole and sink down to the stage like water, she felt . . . almost peaceful. It was a strange feeling to have while performing, and she hadn't felt it for a long time. But the people watching her tonight didn't shout at her or call her names. They just watched.

 _Bellamy_ was watching.

She tried to keep her eyes on him as much as she could while she performed. He had to love seeing her in his shirt, had to love hearing her sing the song that was playing. He had to love seeing her look happy up there, even though he'd never wanted any of this for her.

Of course, no striptease was complete without removing at least _some_ clothing. But she'd already decided that she wasn't getting naked tonight. Even if that was what people wanted or expected, she wasn't doing that anymore. She did come down off the pole long enough to unbutton the oversized shirt she had on and let it fall from her shoulders. But she still had on white lingerie underneath, and that wasn't coming off. So all she had to do now was keep dancing.

At one point, she was on the stage, arching her back, rolling up into a sitting position. At another, she was back behind the pole, in a crawling position, flipping her hair back over her shoulders. And then she was back up on the pole, stretching out horizontally, using her thigh muscles and one arm to hold on while she reached out, elongating her body. She felt like her dancing was passionate, but she knew it was slow. And with slow moves came the chance for the crowd to grow bored. But they didn't. They were the quietest she'd ever heard them as they watched, mesmerized by every move. And nobody was more mesmerized than Bellamy.

As she did a slow spin back down to her feet and the song neared its end, she was already thinking about some of the tricks she might try during the _next_ song. Whatever she did tonight, she wanted it to show how beautiful and intricate this type of dancing really could be. She wanted her last performance to be an artistic one.

Looking out at Bellamy again, she nearly froze, and she felt the blissful expression fall from her face. Because . . . she didn't just see Bellamy this time. She saw the person—the man—standing behind him. And not just any man, either. A man whose face was as familiar to her as her own, whose face she would never forget, even though she hardly ever looked at pictures of him anymore.

Eyes widening in horror, she stood, motionless, and whispered, "Dad?"

...

 _What's going on?_ Bellamy wondered, confused as he watched Clarke . . . kind of lose it up there. In an instant, it was like she'd gone from being completely in the zone with what she was doing to just being out of it. And what had she said? Mad? Sad? He hadn't heard her.

Whatever had rocked her must have rocked her pretty hard, because as the next song started up—another slower, melodic one—she grabbed his shirt off the stage and flung it back over her shoulders as she ran back behind the curtain. The crowd groaned in disappointment, and Bellamy frowned, confused. That . . . definitely didn't seem like it was part of the show.

Anya, of course, hurried up onto the stage in an effort to try to calm everyone down. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'll go . . . see what's going on." She motioned to the DJ and told him, "Music. Different music."

The song cut off, quickly replaced by an up-tempo dance track. It did little to drown out all the complaints, though.

 _Mad . . . sad . . ._ Bellamy felt like an idiot then, because he realized she hadn't said either one of those things. She'd said . . .

She'd said _Dad._

A pretty big guy shuffled up beside him, hands in his pockets, standing stoically. It was too dark for Bellamy to get a good look at him, but he recognized him from the one and only picture Clarke had set out of him. Of course, he'd had a hat and sunglasses on in that picture, so . . . it was like standing next to a stranger. "You're Clarke's dad?" he asked, just to be sure.

"Used to be," the man replied. "But that girl up there . . ." He sighed and shook his head. "That's not my daughter."

Bellamy's frown intensified. He wanted to say something, defend Clarke in some way, but . . . this was her father. He was meeting her _father._ What was his name again? Jake? Jake Griffin?

"I came for a work trip," her dad explained, "thought I'd surprise her, maybe take her out to dinner. But I know she doesn't want me knowing anything about her life these days, so I asked her old boyfriend. He told me I could find her here."

 _Son of a bitch,_ Bellamy thought, fuming inside. Finn had ratted her out after all.

"I didn't wanna believe it," Jake said sadly. "How could she do this to herself?"

 _Holy shit,_ Bellamy thought, realizing that this was Clarke's fear come true. This was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid, his disapproval, his disappointment. But it was happening anyway. Because Finn had blindsided her.

Anya came back out a few moments later, making a beeline straight for Clarke's father. "Excuse me," she said, "you're, um . . . Mr. Griffin?"

"Yes, Clarke's father," he confirmed.

"I see." Anya cast a quick glance at Bellamy, looking a little worried, probably on Clarke's behalf. "Is there, uh . . . is there something I can do for you?" she offered.

"Yes. I'd like to see my daughter," Jake stated simply.

"Well, she's gonna need a minute," Anya said. "Would you like a drink while you wait?" She put her hand on his back and motioned over to the bar, and Jake slowly meandered that direction with her. She made some small talk with him, inconspicuously motioning with her head for Bellamy to go to Clarke. But he didn't need her to tell him to do that. He was already on his way.

He slipped through the crowd and made his way to the back room. Once again, the bouncer stepped aside to let him in, and he ran into the changing room to find his girlfriend.

"Clarke . . ." He stopped in the doorway, his heart breaking when he saw her curled up on a makeup chair, his open shirt hanging off her shoulders, tears raining down her face. "Hey, it's okay," he said, bending down in front of her. "Come here." He tried to pull her in for a hug, but she sat there rigidly, not moving.

"No, it's not _okay,_ Bellamy," she cried. "That's my dad out there. What . . ." She looked at the closed curtain with pools of tears in her eyes and whimpered, "What is he doing here?"

"I don't know," he said. "He mentioned something about his job. But . . ." She wasn't going to love what he was about to say next, but he had to tell her. She deserved to know. "Finn told him to come here," he revealed.

" _Finn_?" she shrieked, her mouth dropping open. "But he promised he wouldn't say anything!"

"Well, his promise was shit," Bellamy muttered, so fucking furious at that guy. Did he really have so much resentment towards Clarke that he wanted to ruin her family? Jesus Christ.

"Oh my god, he knows," Clarke said, astonished. "My dad _knows_. He _saw_ me up there, Bellamy. I . . ." Her mouth quivered as more tears fell. "I don't know what to do."

He didn't, either, honestly—family drama wasn't exactly his area of expertise since he'd never been able to solve his own. But right now, she just needed him to reassure her that things were going to be okay, and he could still do that. "Shh," he soothed, moving in closer to hug her whether she wanted to be hugged or not. "I'm right here with you, okay?" he whispered in her ear, feeling her hands on his shoulders as she clung to him. "You're not doin' this alone."

She cried some more, shaking in his arms, and it probably didn't help when people out there in the crowd started to get loud and impatient. They yelled at her to come back out and complained when she didn't listen to them.

"Let's just get out of here," she said, pulling back from him a bit. "Please, please just—just get me out of here. I can't see him. I can't talk to him like this."

"Okay, get dressed," he told her. "We'll leave. We'll slip out back."

Clarke got back into her regular clothes, grabbed her purse and his shirt, and stayed behind him as they ventured back out into the club. He took a look over at the bar, noting that Jake was still there with Anya, and Murphy was pouring him a drink. He took Clarke out the back exit, into the alley, and held her hand as they quickly made their way back around to the front of the club. They climbed into his car since it was parked closer, and she sunk down in the seat and continued to cry quietly as he drove them home.

By the time they got back to their apartment, she was distraught. She threw her purse down and yelled, " _God_! I didn't want him to know about this! And he's gonna tell my mom, and she's gonna freak out, too, and then she'll probably come out here and make things even worse."

He wasn't sure what to say, so he just blurted out, "Your dancing was really good tonight."

She stared at him in utter confusion. "What?"

"Your dancing," he repeated. "And your singing." He'd been so proud to hear her voice coming over the speakers. She'd sounded really good, too. She always did. "What you were doing up on that stage tonight . . . it's nothing to be ashamed of," he assured her. "You looked beautiful."

Fresh tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. "Pretty sure my dad would disagree."

Based on what he'd already heard . . . yeah, he would. He followed Clarke into the kitchen, pointing out the obvious when he said, "You're gonna have talk to him."

"And say what?" she huffed, throwing her hands in the air. "'Guess what, Dad, I've been a stripper for the past eight months?'"

There definitely wasn't going to be an easy way to go about that conversation, but it had to happen. "If you don't tell him everything, Finn probably will," he pointed out.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Does he really hate me _so much_ that he's gotta try to ruin my life like this?"

"Clarke . . ." He was pissed at Finn, too, but there was something about all this that felt sort of . . . inevitable. And a long time coming. "I know this isn't what you wanna hear right now, but it was bound to come out one way or another," he said. "If it wasn't Finn, he would've seen your picture online at some point. All your fans and all those pictures they get with you . . . it was gonna get back to your parents eventually." In a way, he was surprised it'd taken this long.

"You're right," she said, her voice cracking. "God, how naïve am I that I actually thought I could hide this?"

He wasn't about to say it out loud, but Clarke had been naïve about a number of things. And this was one of them.

"But it's over now," she said. "That was it. Do you think that'll make a difference, me being done with it now?"

"I don't know." It wouldn't hurt, but . . . her dad still knew it'd been happening.

"Well, what did he say to you?" she asked, wringing her fingers together nervously. "Did he sound . . . disappointed?"

He would have loved to be able to lie to her, but there was no point in sugarcoating it. "Yeah," he answered honestly, and her shoulders slumped. "Listen, there hasn't been a second of my life that my mom hasn't been disappointed in me," he reminded her. "And I still love her. So even if your dad never gets over this, you can still love him. Or not. Either one's okay."

"But what if he stops loving me?" she worried out loud. "I mean, my parents already love me less than they used to. They didn't come chasing after me when I moved here. They just got on with their lives." Tears streamed from her eyes, streaming down her cheeks like rivers. "My family's already a mess, Bellamy," she cried, "and this is just gonna make it worse."

"Hey." He cupped her cheek and bent his head, bringing his face closer to her. " _We're_ a family," he told her. "You and me."

"You and me," she echoed, smiling shakily. "Us against the world?"

"Yeah, if it comes down to it." He stroked her cheek, feeling like that was a worst case scenario, though. They weren't at that point yet. "It won't, though," he assured her. "Your dad's not my mom. He'll still love you."

Tears continued to fall from her eyes, and he did his best to wipe them away. He was about to kiss her when there was a loud knock on the door.

"Oh, no," Clarke groaned, going up to it to look through the peephole. She spun back around, whispering, "It's him."

"He knows where you live, too?"

"What do you bet Finn tipped him off again?" she grumbled, coming back into the kitchen. She started to frantically put away some of the dishes they'd set out to dry earlier and said, "Here, help me clean up."

Were dishes really going to make the difference in what her dad thought about her right now, though? Probably not. "Clarke-"

"Help me."

Another loud knock sounded, and Jake said, "Clarke, it's me. Open up, please. We need to talk."

"Go get the door," Bellamy said, taking a glass out of her hand. He put it up in the cupboard, nudging her aside so he could take over the dishes while she went and did what she needed to do. "It's fine," he told her. "It'll be alright."

Slowly, unsurely, Clarke crept towards the door, reaching out for the nob with a trembling hand. When she opened it, she looked like her legs might buckle out from underneath her. "Hey, Dad," she squeaked out, attempting to smile.

He didn't even crack a smile or say hi to her or anything. Instead, he looked her up and down and remarked, "You changed."

Shaking her head, she sputtered, "No, I'm—I'm still the same girl I used to be, deep down. Kind of."

"I meant your outfit," he clarified. "You changed clothes."

"Oh." Clarke looked down at her t-shirt and jeans. "Yeah."

 _She's so nervous,_ Bellamy thought as he finished putting away the dishes. Twenty minutes ago, she'd been up on stage, _so_ confident and _so_ sure of herself. And now, it was like she didn't know what to do or say.

"Can I come in?" her father asked her.

She nodded meekly and stepped aside, opening the door wider for him. With his hands in his pockets, he strode in, looking almost too big for their small apartment. He eyed Bellamy curiously, then remarked, "You were at that club."

 _Oh, this is awkward,_ Bellamy thought. He hadn't really given much thought to how it would be to meet Clarke's parents. He'd just assumed that he'd be her date to her mom's wedding, and she'd introduce him to both of them there.

"Dad, this is Bellamy Blake," she said. "My boyfriend."

"This is who you cheated on Finn with, is it?" Jake said.

She grunted and mumbled, "Finn cheated on me first." But instead of launching into that whole story, she kept on introducing them, as if this were a normal scenario for introductions. "Bellamy, this is my dad, Jake."

"Nice to meet you," Bellamy said, extending his hand in greeting.

Jake stared at him critically and didn't reciprocate the gesture.

 _Damn,_ Bellamy thought, withdrawing his hand as the older man started to roam around the living room, taking in the surroundings. Did the guy already not like him?

"So this is where you've been living for the past eight months," Jake said. He didn't exactly sound impressed.

"Yeah," Clarke said. "I know it's kinda small, but it's really all the space I need." A siren blared outside, almost as if it'd been planned, so she added, "And the neighborhood's not great, but . . . it's only temporary. We're gonna save up."

"We?" her father echoed.

"Well, me and Bellamy." She scooted a little closer to him.

"You live here, too?" Jake asked.

Bellamy nodded. "Yup." Whether her father liked it or not, he lived there, too.

"Actually, it's kind of a funny story," Clarke started babbling. "Bellamy was my neighbor, and the first day I got here, he was locked out, and . . ." She trailed off when she realized her dad was still looking around and wasn't really listening. "And you don't wanna hear that story."

"No, I do," he insisted, sauntering back into the kitchen. "And I will. I'll be in town for a few days. But clearly there are . . . other things we need to talk about first."

Clarke inhaled sharply, and her whole body tensed up.

"Would you mind giving us a moment, Bellamy?" Jake asked.

"No, he can stay," Clarke said quickly. "What do you wanna know?"

He snorted. "I don't _want_ to know anything. I don't wanna be having this conversation. Never in my life did I think you would . . ." He shook his head angrily. "You told me you were waitressing, Clarke."

"Well, I was," she said weakly. "For a couple days."

He looked at her in disbelief. "What on earth would make you decide to . . . degrade yourself like that?"

It took everything Bellamy had to just keep his cool and not jump in and say something to defend her. Sure, he and Clarke had talked (and argued) before about how degrading it was, but . . . her dad didn't know anything about what she was doing there. It was hard to stand back and just let him tear into her.

"It's hard here, Dad," she said. "I needed money. It didn't seem like a bad idea at the time."

"Honest to God, Clarke . . ." Jake pressed his lips together tightly, as if he were censoring himself, much like Bellamy struggling not to say something more. "So how long?" he asked her. "How long have you been doing this? The whole time you've been here?"

Clarke squirmed a bit, looking embarrassed as she admitted, "Pretty much."

Her father rolled his eyes.

"But I'm done with it now. That was my last show," she quickly added.

"Yeah. That's what it said in the window, right above the half-naked photos of you." Every single word out of his mouth was just dripping with disappointment.

"Well, it's over now," she said. "I'm not doing it anymore."

"Why would you ever do it to begin with?"

"I told you, I needed money."

Bellamy looked at her arms, noticing how she was . . . shaking. His girlfriend was _shaking_ because she was so worked up.

"The daughter I raised would never lower herself just for money," Jake said.

"Oh, come on, Dad," she snapped, "you of all people should know how important money can be. You had it, you lost it."

"And I found a way to get it back, in a respectable, dignified way," he claimed. "What you're doing, Clarke . . . there's no dignity in it."

 _Oh, no,_ Bellamy thought, feeling like this whole conversation was just swirling further and further down the drain.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," her father told her bluntly. "I am."

Bellamy had to look away from the two of them, grimacing inwardly. He probably didn't really mean that. He was just upset right now.

"You're ashamed of me?" Clarke choked out.

"Well, weren't you ashamed of me," her father countered, "back when I came out?"

"No, I was—I was _angry_. I wasn't _ashamed_ ," she argued. "How can you say that to me?"

"I can't lie to you, Clarke. Walking in there and seeing you up on that stage tonight . . . I felt disgusted."

Bellamy couldn't take it anymore. He knew it probably wasn't his place to butt in, but dammit, he couldn't just stand there and listen to him rag on her like this. "Hey, give her a break, alright?" he said.

"Excuse me, but this is between me and my daughter."

"No," Clarke said. "No, you don't get to just walk in here, to _my_ home, and pass judgment on me, Dad! You have no idea what my life has been like since I've left. You don't know anything about what I've been through."

 _Damn right,_ Bellamy thought, proud of her for standing up for herself.

"Because you didn't tell me," her father said. "Because you kept me at a distance. You purposefully excluded me from your life, and now I know why. It's because you didn't want me finding out about any of this. You knew I'd be ashamed of you, and maybe that's because you're ashamed of yourself. I don't know who you're pretending to be when you're up there whoring yourself out, but-"

" _Whoring_ herself out?" Bellamy blared, never okay with _anyone_ using that word in connection with his girlfriend. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, Bellamy, just don't," Clarke said, placing a hand on his chest to calm him down. "Look, Dad . . . it's not as bad as you think. It's a—it's a _performance_ -based strip club."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we focus on putting on shows like you walked in on," she explained, giving him the full-on sell that Anya had probably once given her. "We don't—we don't hop up on guys' laps and do any of the stuff you're thinking of. It's . . . it's classier than that."

"Classy?" Jake nearly laughed.

"Yes. Monty's girlfriend, Harper . . . she used to work here, too, and she's a really good, nice, smart person."

"Well, if it's so classy and you're so popular there, then why was this your last show?" he asked.

"Because . . ." She looked up at Bellamy and just shrugged. "It's time for something different."

Yeah, he thought it was a smart move not telling her dad about McCreary or Roan or any of the horrible things that had gone down there. It would just add fuel to his judgmental fire.

"And where do you fit in with all of this?" Jake asked him. "You're her boyfriend now, but you're okay with it?"

"He's never been okay with it, Dad," Clarke answered for him. "He tried to tell me not to start working there."

"Because he knows how low it is," Jake said.

"He was a bartender there," Clarke informed him. "He looked after me."

Her father studied him critically and muttered, "Oh, I'm sure he did his fair share of . . . looking."

Bellamy rolled his eyes, not sure why her dad seemed so intent on disliking him when he hadn't even done anything.

"Would you stop? Please," Clarke begged. "Don't attack him."

"Do you even like my daughter," he questioned, "or do you just like watching her take her clothes off?"

"Dad, stop."

"No, I love your daughter," Bellamy told him, and then, even if it wasn't a good idea, he asked a question of his own: "Do you love her right now?"

Clarke tensed up again.

"I'll always love you, Clarke," her father told her. "I _don't_ love what you've become."

She looked away, starting to cry again, and Bellamy couldn't just stand there and let him say more things that were going to bring more tears to her eyes. "You should leave," he suggested. Even if it didn't win him and favor with the guy, he had no problem kicking Jake Griffin out for the night.

"We'll talk more tomorrow," Jake told his daughter. He gave another glance to Bellamy, then turned and left without another word. Clarke nearly disintegrated into tears once he was gone, and Bellamy had to put his arms around her just to keep her standing. The only other time he'd seen Clarke look so distraught had been that night in the alley with Roan.

He got her undressed once she calmed down, and she changed into one of his t-shirts instead. Lying on her stomach on the bed, she cried to the point where there were really no tears left. They soaked into the pillowcase beneath her head, and she just looked . . . lost as she lay there. Stunned. And he couldn't blame her. It was like her past and her present had just collided head-on tonight. Of course she hadn't been ready for it.

He got into bed with her, reached over, cupped her head, and stroked her hair, wishing there was something more he could do for her, some way to make her feel better.

"My dad hates me," she said, her voice cracking with sadness.

"No, you heard him. He loves you," he reminded her. As hurtful as her father had been, at least he'd acknowledged that much. "If he didn't love you, if he didn't care, then he wouldn't even have any problem with this."

"Like Finn?" she said. "He just let me do it. He encouraged me."

 _Fucking jackass,_ Bellamy thought. That kid was still at the center of so much of this shit, but he acted like Clarke was the bad guy. "He didn't love you enough," he said. "Your dad's bein' an ass right now, but at least you know he still cares. Once he has more time to process everything, he'll calm down."

"Maybe," she said. "But maybe not."

 _He will,_ Bellamy thought. _He has to._ And if he didn't, he'd talk some sense into him, get him to come around. Somehow.

"I don't know what I would do without you, Bellamy," she said, and a single tear fell out of the corner of her eye. It wasn't the sad kind, though. Not this time. It was the grateful kind.

He leaned in and kissed her, keeping his face near hers, moving closer so that he could drape his whole arm over her. She was probably gonna lie there the rest of the night, so . . . he was just gonna lie there with her.


	61. Chapter 61

_Chapter 61_

Clarke couldn't believe she'd actually managed to fall asleep last night. She'd lain awake for a while, feeling horrible, dwelling on everything that had happened last night, everything her father had said. But she must have nodded off eventually, because she woke up the next morning feeling like she'd at least been asleep for a couple hours. She had a dull headache, but that may have just been from all the crying.

"Bellamy?" she called quietly, reaching over to his side of the bed. But it was empty. Lifting her head, she squinted at the numbers on the alarm clock. It was still pretty early. So either he was still there, or he'd already headed out on the job hunt today.

Sitting up slowly, she stretched, then frowned when she heard yelling coming from the living room. It was definitely Bellamy, but his voice was the only one she heard, and she couldn't make out what he was saying.

She got out of bed and trudged down the hallway, finding him pacing around the living room with her phone up to his ear, blaring, "You fucking promised her you wouldn't say anything, and then you turned around and did it? What the hell's wrong with you?"

 _Finn,_ she registered. He had to be talking to Finn.

"No, her dad walked in last night while she was up on stage!" he yelled. "Does that make you happy? You fuckin' proud of yourself?"

God, she could only imagine how smug Finn was sounding right now.

"Yeah, well, you know what? You're a fuckin' piece of shit." Bellamy ended the call and threw her phone down on the couch, looking like he was about to punch something. It wasn't until she actually stepped into the living room that he noticed her there. "Hey," he said.

"Hey." If that was the way his entire conversation with Finn had gone, it was one hell of an unpleasant way for him to start his morning. "Did Finn call?" she asked.

"No, I called him," he admitted. "I was just so pissed that he'd . . ." Trailing off, he shook his head angrily. "I'm sorry, I should probably just back off."

As much as she loved that he was so willing to defend her, there wasn't any reason to add fuel to the fire where Finn was concerned. "Can I see my phone?" she asked him.

He bent down, picked her phone up off the couch, and handed it over to her.

"I'm gonna call my dad," she said, "see if he wants to . . . spend any time together today."

"You want me to be there?" Bellamy offered.

She _did_ , but that would probably add fuel to the fire, too. "No, at least one of us needs to continue the job hunt," she said. "I didn't walk out of there with any money last night, so . . ." She'd been expecting thousands of dollars for her last performance, but since she'd barely made it through one song, that wasn't happening.

"We'll be alright," Bellamy assured her, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You hang out with your dad, I'll go try to find a job."

She nodded, hoping they both had some good luck today. They needed some source of income, and she needed . . . not forgiveness, necessarily, but acceptance.

Clarke got a hold of her father, arranged to pick him up at his hotel at 10:00, and then proceeded to spend an hour getting ready. Like it was some big date or something. She tried on outfit after outfit, opting for jeans and a simple white shirt. Nothing scandalous-looking about that. She put her hair back in a half ponytail, kept the makeup simple, and asked Bellamy to wish her luck as she left. It took her longer to find his hotel than she'd thought. He was staying at the Hilton, which was nowhere near her apartment. It was a completely different part of the city, one she was very unfamiliar with. His hotel room was probably as big as her whole apartment.

Her dad, unlike her ex-boyfriend, was very punctual, and even remarked that she was late once she finally got there. It was such a little thing that she refused to let it bother her. She had to be optimistic about today. Had to be.

"There's so much to see here. You're gonna love it," she raved as she drove.

Her father didn't respond, instead just sat in the passenger's seat with his sunglasses on, looking out at the city and all its people as they drove past.

Trying to fill the void in conversation, she told him, "Bellamy was the one who took me around to see everything. It was really fun." But even that got no response. She felt like she was talking to a brick wall, and it was so frustrating. "Do you have any work things today," she asked, "or . . ."

Finally, that got him to say something. "No, I cleared my schedule. Just a dinner with an investor this evening. Old friend from college," he said. He waited a moment, then asked, "Your friend Harper just graduated college, right?"

"Yeah. Now she got a job with the K-State volleyball team."

"Hmm." He nodded, looking over at her as they approached a red light. "You should go to college," he said. "Medical school like your mom."

She resist the urge to make a face. Medical school? That sounded long and expensive, and not like something she was willing to try anymore.

"I might not have quite as much capital as I used to, but things are looking up, Clarke," he told her. "I can help you pay for it."

She wasn't about to just take him up on that offer, because she wasn't sure college was in the cards for her anymore. The possibility seemed so remote that she didn't even know if it was something she wanted to pursue anymore. "What exactly is your new business?" she asked, shifting the topic of conversation back onto him when the light in front of her turned green.

"Thelonious and I purchased a property," he answered. "In an office building. It used to be an eye doctor's office, but we're revitalizing it."

"Revitalizing?" she echoed.

"Bringing it back, making it something new."

"Your real estate company?" she asked, faintly recalling that he'd mentioned that a few times.

"Yes. It's really taking off already. It's gonna add business to Arkadia, jobs . . . and it's improved my reputation in town, I'll tell you that much."

Considering how far his reputation had fallen when he'd come out, that was good news. "Well, that's great, Dad," she said, happy for him.

"Yeah." Again he looked over at her, and even though she kept her eyes on the road instead of looking back at him, she sensed that he was sort of . . . smiling. "You know, even when things look bleak, all you have to do is turn it around."

That could have just been about him and his new business, but . . . she suspected it wasn't. There was an undertone to that sentence, one that made her feel like it was directed at her. He thought her life was _bleak_ right now. He wanted her to _turn it around_.

Their first stop was the Empire State Building, followed by the Statue of Liberty, where she actually convinced her dad to take a picture with her. He wasn't one for selfies, though, and they wanted the full statue in the background, so she asked someone to take a picture on her phone. It was a little awkward, because not only had she not seen her dad in months, but there was also this lingering knowledge that he wasn't particularly pleased with her right now. Still, he put his arm around her, and they smiled for the camera. The picture was nice. It wasn't the biggest, brightest smile for either one of them, but at least they didn't look upset with each other. She posted it to Instagram, giving it the quick caption of _showing my dad NYC_ , hoping that today was the start of making something negative into something a little more positive. Sure, she hadn't expected him to show up there last night—hadn't expected it at _all_ —but now she didn't have to lie to him or hide something from him anymore. Now, they could just be honest with each other. Maybe they could . . . rebuild.

She had to shut off her phone after that, because she started getting a lot of texts, and that got annoying fast. She didn't read any of them, because she wanted to focus on her father. He shut his phone off, too, agreeing to make today all about the two of them, no outside influences creeping in.

After they grabbed a quick lunch from a food truck, she took him to the Brooklyn Bridge, which she enjoyed far more than the other two tourist attractions she'd taken him to see. The bridge definitely looked prettier at night, and now that the weather was nice, it was pretty crowded. So it wasn't the ideal time to walk it, but of _course_ she had to walk it with her dad. Plus, being a decent-sized trek, it gave them a good chance to talk.

"This is a long walk," he remarked.

"Yeah," she agreed. "It's fun, though, don't you think?"

He . . . sort of nodded.

"Bellamy and I have a lock on here somewhere," she said, motioning to a large cluster of locks as they walked by. She was pretty sure she remembered where theirs was, but it'd be really hard to find it mixed in with all the others.

"You seem to think highly of him," her father noted, "of Bellamy."

Clarke laughed a little. "Well, yeah, I mean . . . he's my boyfriend."

"Finn was your boyfriend," her father said. "You dated him for over two years."

But she'd never thought as highly of him as she did of Bellamy. Bellamy was . . . a man, whereas Finn was still learning how to be one. "Finn cheated on me, Dad," she reminded him.

"But you didn't cheat on him?"

She sighed. "Not . . . exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"It means . . ." She really didn't want to get into it. Not now, not with him. "Look, Finn was the one who _cheated_ cheated. In _that_ way," she emphasized. "I know I shouldn't have . . . had an affair with Bellamy, but . . ." She winced slightly. "I don't think that makes me a horrible person."

"I never said it did," her father said. "I'm just trying to understand who you are now, what kind of life you're living."

He made her sound so . . . so _different._ Almost unrecognizable. "I'm still your daughter," she pointed out. That would never change. "I'm still the same person I used to be. In some ways."

"No," he disagreed, "you've changed."

Well, of course she had. There was no way someone could pack up, move across the country as a teenager, and _not_ change as a result of it. "I'm an adult now," she stated confidently. "I'm not a little girl."

"I noticed."

She made a face, not sure if he was just saying that or if he was referencing . . . last night. At the club. And how she definitely wasn't a little girl there. "Look, Dad, do we have to . . . do we have to ruin this right now?" she asked, desperate to talk about something else so that the tension between them didn't get even more tense. "We're having a nice day."

"We are," he agreed.

"Yeah, so . . ." In her mind, there was no reason to have the kind of conversations that would change it into a not-so-nice one. "How are you and . . . Thelonious?" she asked, swallowing her pride to ask about the man who had come between her mother and father's marriage. "Are you guys going on vacation this summer or . . ."

"We've talked about a weekend away," her father said. "Maybe in Branson. We'll see." After that, he proceeded to talk about how he and his boyfriend had decided to go into business together, and how Thelonious's son Wells was taking summer classes and was already on track to graduate college early. He said that, whenever Wells came home for the weekend, they made sure to all have dinner together. It sounded like a real . . . family thing. It hurt Clarke's heart a little bit to feel so excluded from it, but hey, it gave her father something to talk about. Something that _wasn't_ drenched in disappointment. So she nodded a lot and said things like, "Interesting," and "That sounds nice." And she listened.

...

Another day of job-hunting, another day coming home with very few prospects. Bellamy had filled out a couple more applications, but he didn't have high hopes for any of them. If he got anything, it was probably going to be a daytime bartending gig. Which would suck beyond the telling of it, and there was no way that'd be enough money to get by. Even if he got that one job, he'd have to go look for a second.

Clarke didn't appear to be back yet, which was probably a good thing, because he was feeling pretty discouraged, and he didn't want to discourage her, too. He kicked off his shoes, shucked off the semi-nice shirt he'd worn, and changed into a t-shirt. He grabbed himself a beer out of the fridge and had just popped open the tab and took a drink when his phone rang. It was . . . Harper? Weird. She usually just called Clarke, not him.

"Hey, Harper," he answered.

"Bellamy," she said, sounding . . . instantly agitated. About something. "How is she?"

"Who?" How was who? "Clarke?"

"Yeah. I've tried calling her, but she's not picking up."

"She's—she's out with her dad right now," he told her.

"Her dad's there? Already?"

 _Already?_ Now he was just confused. "What do you mean?"

"Well . . . I assume he saw the video," she mumbled.

"What video?" There was a video now? "What're you talking about?"

"You don't know?"

He sure as hell didn't.

She sighed heavily. "Okay, well, Finn sent out a video. Of Clarke. To everyone back in Arkadia."

His stomach tightened up with worry. A video of Clarke? What kind of videos did he have?

"Her mom, Monty, Maya, Jasper . . . _everyone_ she went to high school with," Harper went on. "And people have already put it on Instagram and stuff."

"What kind of video?" he asked warily.

"It's her in the club. Dancing," Harper replied. "Stripping."

He winced. Oh, no. Oh, _no._

"Everyone knows, Bellamy."

 _Shit._ Finn had really decided to be that guy, huh, the kind of guy whose whole mission in life was to make his ex miserable? Hopefully the video wasn't . . . too explicit. "Thanks for telling me," he said, ending the call. He clenched his phone tightly, his other hand in a fist, as he imagined how Clarke was going to feel, what a big blindside this was going to be to her. First her dad showing up last night, now this? The girl couldn't catch a break.

Harper sent him the link to the video shortly after that. Indeed, it was up on someone's Instagram, someone he didn't even know. He watched it, only to see how bad it was. Either Finn or someone else had blurred out Clarke's chest, but she was clearly topless in it, and she was swinging around the pole. Bellamy didn't recognize the song she was dancing to, so he figured Finn must have taken that video the night he and Cage had shown up, when Anya had kicked Bellamy out and he'd had to wait for her to get done. Hell, maybe Cage had taken the video. He hated Clarke, too.

It was hard not to notice all the comments people had left. The video had thousands of views already, and people were writing things like, ' _always knew she was a slut'_ and ' _screw going to college, Clarke went to pound town_.' Some of the things people were saying were downright vile and disgusting. Others were just harsh and judgmental. He saw a comment or two from Maya, Jasper, and Monty, asking that the video be taken down and that people stop being so mean. But nobody stopped. And taking the video down wouldn't do any good. It was out there now. It was never going away.

He paused the video and slid his phone into his pocket abruptly when Clarke came in. "Hey," she said. "You'll never believe it, but my dad and I actually had an okay day."

They had? He wasn't sure how with this video going around. Maybe they somehow hadn't seen it yet.

"I mean, it was awkward, of course, but I didn't cry, and he didn't yell at me, so . . . progress." She actually managed to smile, a smile that broke his heart a little bit. "I showed him our lock on the bridge," she said. "Took me a while to find it."

 _You gotta tell her,_ he thought. Either she heard about it from him or from some of those jackasses who thought it was okay to call her a slut in the comments.

"What's wrong?" she asked, tilting her head to the side curiously.

"Clarke . . ." God, he hated to have to drop this bomb on her, especially when she seemed to be in better spirits than she was last night. "Finn did something."

Clearly, she had _no_ idea, because she just stared at him confusedly.

Taking his phone back out of his pocket, he sighed and handed it over to her. With the video right there on the screen, waiting to be watched.

Her eyes widened in alarm, and immediately, her fingers started to tremble as she pressed play. She watched just a few seconds of it and said, "Oh my god," sounding mortified.

 _She doesn't deserve this,_ Bellamy thought, having half the mind to just go find Finn and lay the son of a bitch out right now.

"Oh my god," she said again, pausing the video this time. She handed his phone back to him, and her bottom lip quivered as she tried to speak. "That means . . . my mom knows," she whimpered. "My friends . . . everybody?"

His heart completely sank down in his chest when she started to cry. "Clarke, I'm so sorry," he said.

"Why . . . _why_ did you call him?" she yelled suddenly, staring at him in disbelief. "This morning, why did you call him and yell at him like that? You made him do this!"

"I didn't-" No, he hadn't even thought about that. But what if she was right? What if his 'standing up for her' had motivated Finn to send that video out? What if it was all his fault? "I didn't know he was gonna-"

"He's getting back at me and you and us!" she cried, clamping her hand over her mouth as the sobbing started and she ran into the bedroom.

"Clarke . . ." He tried to follow her, but she was gone, and she slammed the bedroom door shut. As if to say she wanted to be alone. As if to say Finn wasn't the only guy she was mad at right now.

...

Bellamy felt like shit. But he was sure that Clarke felt ten times worse, so he gave her space that evening, made some macaroni out of the box, and tried to bring it to her.

"Hey, babe, I made dinner," he said, knocking on the bedroom door. "You want some?" She didn't say anything, so he opened the door slowly, bringing the plate inside.

She lay on her side on the bed, her back towards him, and muttered, "I'm not hungry."

"You sure?" He'd cooked up two boxes, so there was a lot on that plate. "I'll just leave it here in case you get hungry," he said, setting it down on the nightstand. He knew she was upset, but she still needed to eat.

Sensing that she still wasn't in any mood to talk to him, he sulked out of the room, but she made sure to say, "Shut the door, please," before he could make it too far down the hallway.

He didn't enjoy feeling like she was so mad at him, but he also felt like he kind of deserved it. He'd made a bad situation with Finn even worse. Now, this stripping stuff wasn't contained. It was out there for everyone to know and mock and judge. So he shut the door, content to give her whatever space she needed from him. Hell, he'd sleep out on the couch tonight if that was what she wanted.

There was a knock on the door, and Bellamy had a bad feeling about it before he even peeked out the peephole. It could only be a handful of people, and he didn't expect it to be any of their friends.

And indeed, it wasn't.

"Oh, fuck," he grumbled under his breath when he saw her father standing out there. He couldn't very well just not answer for that guy, though, so he opened the door and greeted, "Hey, Jake." Although maybe he wasn't supposed to call him by his first name, so he quickly corrected, "Mr. Griffin." He wasn't good at this, making a solid impression on girls' parents. He really hadn't even met a girl's parents . . . ever. The girls he'd dated and hooked up with in high school didn't count, since he'd known most of their parents from elementary school onward.

"How is she?" her father asked.

He let out a heavy sigh. "Not so good."

Jake nodded solemnly and asked, "Can I come in?"

Well, it wasn't like he could tell him no, so Bellamy opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Sure."

Jake came in, glancing down at his phone a few times. Maybe he was being bombarded with texts and calls from people back home, people asking about his daughter, asking him if he was okay. "My dinner meeting got cancelled," he said, shoving his phone in his pocket, "so I thought I'd swing by."

Bellamy closed the door, not sure how to interact with this guy when he barely even knew him. "You want something to eat?" he offered, motioning to the pot on the stove. There was plenty of macaroni still in there.

"No, I'm alright," Jake said. He took a sniff of the air, though, and recognized the aroma. "Macaroni and cheese, huh?"

Bellamy shrugged. "Clarke's favorite." It wasn't fancy, but if there was any food that might be able to make her feel a little bit better, that was probably it.

Jake sat down at the counter, a reminiscent smile on his face. "You know, she and I used to cook together when her mom was working late," he recalled. "Neither one of us was very good at it, but we'd make all sorts of new creations and concoctions. Just good father/daughter time."

Bellamy stood on the other side of the counter, trying to picture the two of them as a father and daughter. Because the only Clarke and Jake he knew were . . . estranged. _Very_ distant. But it hadn't always been that way.

"You have any kids?" Jake asked him.

"No," Bellamy answered quickly. "I got a little sister, though. I used to try to spend a lot of time with her."

"Used to?"

"Well, she and my mom live in Louisiana, so . . ." That wasn't a good excuse, though. He could have gone back home once in a while. He probably should have.

"What brought you here?" Jake questioned.

It was almost embarrassing now to admit, but . . . he felt like the only way he could get on this guy's good side was to be honest. "Wanted to be an actor."

Jake looked surprised. "Really? And how's that worked out for you?"

It hadn't. Bellamy didn't bother saying that, but . . . hell, it went without saying.

"I can help you find a job, if you'd like," Jake offered. "So that you can provide for my daughter."

That was kind of an old-fashioned way of thinking, especially coming from a guy whose wife was a freakin' doctor. But Bellamy didn't want to turn him down on the offer. The truth was, he needed help. Maybe Clarke's father had some connections or something.

When Jake's phone buzzed, he took it out, looked at the screen, and muttered, "Her mom again."

Bellamy didn't know Abby Griffin, either, but he could only imagine how much she was freaking out right now. "I take it she's upset."

"She's . . . devastated," Jake replied, typing out a text to her. "I'm just trying to reassure her that I'm out here, I'm handling it. But Clarke won't talk to her. Apparently she's not answering her phone for anyone."

"She's pretty devastated herself," Bellamy let him know. Hopefully she hadn't read through the comments on that video. That was only going to make her feel worse.

"Did she honestly think she could keep this from us forever?" Jake said, sounding like he was wondering aloud. "We were bound to find out, one way or another. It's a shame we had to find out through Finn."

"Aren't you pissed at him?" Bellamy asked. "There's a half-naked video of your daughter out there online right now, thanks to him."

"I'm certainly not thrilled," Jake admitted. "But then again, it was her decision to do what she did."

"She didn't . . ." Bellamy hated the way that sounded, like _Clarke_ was the one who should be blamed here. "She didn't just get up there and take her clothes off, you know," he informed her dad. "She put in a lot of work to be able to . . . dance like that."

Jake snorted. "On a pole?"

"Yeah." He knew it didn't _sound_ difficult, but he'd seen Clarke work out and practice. It wasn't easy. "She's really talented," he said. "I know nobody can see that right now, and I didn't exactly love that her talent was overshadowed by the stripping, either. But . . . there were worse things she could've done." He thought about Charmaine's constant offers to join the adult film industry, and he quietly added, "Worse things she's been offered."

"What kinds of things?" Jake inquired.

Bellamy looked down at his feet, mumbling, "Things she turned down." He thought of Vivian, of Roma, of Ontari, even, and all the things they _hadn't_ said no to. "But not every girl there did," he said, relieved that Clarke had gotten out when she had. It'd been bad there, but it could have ended up being even worse. "What I'm trying to say is . . . Clarke still has standards," he said. "She has lines she won't cross. Maybe you should be proud of her for that."

Jake thought about it a moment, then shook his head. "I can't be proud of her right now," he said stubbornly.

"Well, can you at least be there for her then?" Bellamy asked him, growing frustrated. "Maybe that's what she needs."

Jake looked down at the countertop, not saying anything.

"You're her dad," Bellamy reminded him. Even though he'd never had one himself, he felt like that had to be an unbreakable bond. "Go hug her. Tell her everything's gonna be alright."

Jake looked him in the eye again, a contemplative expression on his face. Bellamy wasn't sure what the hell there was to contemplate. The guy's daughter was upset right now, in some real, true emotional pain. She needed some support.

It seemed like it took longer than it should have, but finally, Jake got up, traipsed down the hallway, and knocked on the closed door to the bedroom. Bellamy followed him.

Clarke didn't tell them to come in, but they went in anyway. She had turned over onto her other side now, and Bellamy noticed that a little bit of the macaroni and cheese was gone from the plate. Not much, maybe just a couple bites, but . . . it was something.

She sat up when she saw her dad there and stared at him almost pleadingly, with mascara tracking down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her mouth still quivered; she looked like she could just break.

Her father went into the room and sat down next to her, opening up his arms to pull her in for a hug. "Shh. Come here, sweetheart," he said, holding her close as she began to cry again. "Don't worry," he soothed. "Everything's gonna be alright."

Clarke's whole body shook as she cried on his shoulder. She looked . . . so young to Bellamy in that moment. Just a girl in her dad's arms.

As much as he would have loved to be the one to hold her and make her feel better, it really didn't matter if it was him or Jake Griffin doing that. All that mattered was that someone did. So Bellamy backed out of the bedroom, shutting the door as he went, willing to let them have their time alone.

...

Bellamy slept out on the couch that night. Which Clarke didn't protest, but at the same time . . . she missed him next to her. All night, she tossed and turned, at times feeling too hot, then feeling too cold. When she kicked the covers off, he wasn't there to put them back on her. When she accidentally pushed her pillow off the bed, he wasn't there to pick it up and put it back under her head. It just didn't feel right.

She lumbered out of bed, feeling like she hadn't slept much at all, and went out into the living room just as he was waking up, too. He sat on the couch, hunched forward with his hands on his knees, letting out a big yawn. When he looked up and saw her, he didn't say anything.

Sitting down next to him, she decided it was best to apologize right away. "I'm sorry."

His brows furrowed in confusion. "For what?" he asked.

"For making you feel like this is your fault. It's not." She'd lashed out at him a bit yesterday, and he hadn't deserved that. There was no way he could have known that this would happen.

"No, I should've never called Finn," he acknowledged. "Maybe he never would've sent out that video if I hadn't . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Bellamy, it's okay," she assured him. "I mean, it sucks that the video's out, but . . . I'm mad at Finn, not you."

He hung his head, exhaling heavily. "I still feel bad."

She stared at him sadly, mad at herself for making him feel that way. So she leaned over, touched his cheek to get him to look at her, and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth, more of a non-verbal reassurance that she wasn't going to hold this against him any longer. "Maybe it's just better that everyone knows," she said, trying _so hard_ to see the glass half full. "Now it's out in the open. I don't have to keep it a secret anymore." There was definitely something sort of . . . freeing about it? This definitely wasn't how she'd wanted people to find out, but now that they had . . . there was nothing she could do about it. "I just hate that everyone back home is . . . saying stuff about me," she mumbled, the words _slut_ and _hooker_ flashing through her mind.

"Tell me you didn't look at all those comments," Bellamy said.

"I did." After her dad had left last night, she'd lain in bed, scrolling through the dozens upon dozens of them. And that had only made her feel worse. "Dumb, huh?" She'd resisted the urge to comment back at least. No need to make the news blow up even more than it already was. "And my mom . . . I'm gonna have to talk to my mom soon, Bellamy," she said, already dreading it, "keep her from coming out here, too."

"Oh god, yes," he said dramatically. "No offense to your parents, but we don't really need both of 'em out here at once."

She laughed a little, because he was so right. They really didn't. "My dad's work trip has essentially become a Clarke trip now," she told him. "You realize that, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "Although . . . I think today might be a Bellamy Blake day."

She cocked her head to the side. "What do you mean?"

Bellamy groaned. "He said he wants to help me find a job."

Clarke's eyebrows shot upward. "And you're down for that?" She would've thought that Bellamy wouldn't be willing to accept help from anybody.

"Well, I don't wanna offend the guy," he said. "I'm tryin' to make a good impression, you know?" He shifted around a bit, made a face, and then just flat-out asked, "Does he like me?"

 _Oh, Bellamy . . ._ She smiled at him sympathetically, because meeting a girl's father under any circumstances, let alone these crazy ones, wasn't easy. "Well, he doesn't _dis_ like you," she said. "I don't think."

"Indifference, huh?" Bellamy thought about it a moment, then nodded. "That's fine. I'll take indifference."

"Bellamy." She looked at him adoringly. "You're doing fine." All things considered, she thought he was doing a really good job, actually. "And even if he doesn't end up liking you . . . so what?" She took his hands in hers, giving them a gentle squeeze as she reminded him, "I love you. That's all that matters."

Bellamy squeezed her hands back, and a subtle smile came across his lips. This time, he was the one to lean in and kiss her, and it was exactly the sweet and supportive kind of kiss she needed.

...

"You know the saying, 'Don't judge a book by its cover?'" Jake shook his head as he brought a dark suit-jacket over to Bellamy. "It's complete crap. When you go in for an interview, you get judged on your appearance all the time."

"I think my appearance is pretty good," Bellamy mumbled, adjusting the cuffs of the long white shirt Jake had told him to try on. He stood before a full-length mirror, trying to acquaint himself with his own reflection. He never wore slacks and a shirt like this, and the shoes . . . the shoes weren't him at all.

"For a modeling campaign, sure," Jake said, "but this is a real job we're talking about. A real salary, steady hours . . ." He handed the Bellamy the jacket, proclaiming, "This is what you need."

Bellamy wasn't sure whether he was talking about the jacket or the 'real job,' but he put the damn jacket on anyway. He'd never felt like a bigger pretender in his entire life. And that included the time he'd played a gay guy onstage.

"I've never actually worked in an office before," he admitted, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

"First time for everything." Jake smirked.

"I type like a snail, though," he admitted, worried they'd make him do a typing test. "I do the two-finger hunt and peck method."

"Don't tell them that."

"I had to have hallway breaks in middle school. I can't sit in a cubicle all day. I'll lose my fuckin' mind."

"Try not to drop any swear words during the interview," Jake suggested.

God, he'd never even really done an interview. He'd pretty much always just walked into a bar or a restaurant or wherever was hiring, filled out the application, and gotten the job on the spot. "Who's the guy I'm interviewing with again?" he asked, trying to remember his freshman year careers class in high school. Firm handshake, repeat the employer's name after they introduced themselves . . . that kind of shit.

"An old friend," Jake answered. "Somebody I knew back in high school. He's made quite a name for himself in the business world. But you won't be interviewing with him directly; you'll be interviewing with one of his subordinates."

So it sounded like a big company then. Fuck, Bellamy didn't feel like the right fit for that.

"Don't worry, though, I already put in a good word for you," Jake assured him, giving him a pat on the back. "Just give a few solid answers, and you should get the job with no problem."

Bellamy tugged at the collar of his shirt, dreading the thought of putting a tie on. But they were at this fancy menswear store, and Jake would probably say it was required. Just like the suit was. He couldn't stroll in wearing a t-shirt and jeans for a 'real job.' He had to look like the right fit.

 _Just play the part,_ Bellamy told himself. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done that this year. He could go into that interview and _act_ , act like he knew what the hell he was doing.

...

Clarke's thumb hovered over the screen. One press of the button, and she'd be dialing her mom. She had about twenty voicemails from the woman, each one more hysterical than the last. And her inbox had blown up with texts, mostly from her friends. There had been a few mean ones from people who had always been jealous of her back in high school. Girls who had liked Finn or who had resented her for beating them out for student council president or a spot on the cheerleading squad. She deleted all of those and only bothered texting back Harper, Monty, and Jasper. Maya didn't send her anything, which led Clarke to suspect that her former gal pal was . . . stunned. Maybe even disappointed.

Before she could work up the courage to give her mother a call, the door opened. "Back already, huh?" she said, setting her phone down on the counter. When she glanced at the door, she was surprised to see Bellamy wearing . . . a suit. A full-on three piece suit. And he had his hair slicked back off his forehead.

"What do you think?" her father said, practically beaming with pride. "He cleans up well, huh?"

She wasn't sure what to think, to be honest. Bellamy didn't look particularly thrilled to be wearing that suit. In fact, he was already tugging at the tie, like he couldn't wait to get it off. "You look different," she said.

" _Different_ is what got him a job," her dad revealed.

"Really?" Well, that was good news for sure. "What kind of job?"

Bellamy rolled his eyes. "Basically a glorified file clerk. Nothing major."

"But at least one of you is employed now," her father made sure to add.

Loosening his tie, Bellamy grumbled, "I'm gonna go change," and disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom, shutting the door.

"I'll buy him a few more suits," her father offered. "He needs to dress the part."

She made a face, wondering if that meant Bellamy was going to have to dress up like that every day now. When did he work? Was it like a regular 9:00-5:00 job, forty hours a week? Because that was gonna be a lot different than what he was used to.

"You don't seem very excited, Clarke," her father remarked.

"No, I'm . . ." Clarke got up and said, "I'm very grateful you helped him get a job. It's just that . . . I know Bellamy. And I know he's gonna be _miserable_ working in an office."

"Well, it's better than nothing, isn't it?"

She sighed. "Yeah, I guess." They needed money, so . . . at least they'd have some coming in.

"You know, you could have a paycheck, too, if you want," her father said, a gleam in his eyes.

"I know. I'm gonna apply at a lot of different places." These past couple days had just been an emotional whirlwind for her. She'd figured it was best not to go try an interview while she was like this.

"Don't even bother," he said. "Come work for me."

"What?" she spat, laughing a little. Was he serious? "Are you doing something here in New York, or . . ."

"No," he said. "Just back in Arkadia."

Arkadia was . . . states away. There was nothing feasible about working there. "I can't go back to Arkadia, Dad," she told him.

"Why not? Because of the video?"

"That and . . ." Did he really have to ask? Wasn't it obvious? "I can't leave Bellamy."

Her father narrowed his eyes at her. "You can," he said. "You just don't want to."

"No, I don't," she admitted, not ashamed of that in any way. "I'm in love with him."

"You're nineteen," he reminded her.

"So?" She could be nineteen and in love. There was no unwritten rule against that.

"Your life has gotten out of control here, Clarke," he said, sounding firm but not exactly . . . mean. "You need to start over. I can help you do that. Back home."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did he really just expect her to pick up her whole life and abandon this place? She may have done that once before, but . . . this was different now. This was Bellamy Blake they were talking about, the love of her whole life.

"That's not my home anymore," she informed him. Just in case he'd forgotten.

"And this is?" He looked around that apartment, a space that she knew was small and pretty crappy and nothing like the home she'd grown up in with him and her mom. No, this had never felt like much of a home, but the person she lived with did. Couldn't her father understand that?

She didn't get the chance to respond to him, because Bellamy came back out of the bedroom, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt now, looking much more like his usual self.

"Ah, Bellamy, congratulations again on the job," her father said, actually shaking his hand, unlike he had when Bellamy had first tried to introduce himself. "Let me know if I can be of any more help, alright?"

Clearly Bellamy wasn't comfortable accepting so much 'help,' because he swallowed hard and forced out a, "Thanks." But the look in his eyes told Clarke that he was . . . embarrassed. Embarrassed to have to let someone help him.

When her dad left, they talked for a bit, mostly about how the interview had gone and what Bellamy was told he'd be doing, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it much. So they ended up over on the couch together, clothes off, her on top of him, and they just fucked. Both of them wanting it, needing it. She rode him at a pretty frenetic pace, and he rolled his hips up into her, fucking into her deeply, filling her up, making her feel . . . better.

After he came with a few sharp, abrupt thrusts of his hips, she slumped forward, her face inches from his own, just breathing with him and reveling in the feel of his big, rough hands smoothing over her ass. He tried to lift her hips up and off him, but she whimpered, "No, don't," and pressed down to remain right where she was. "Just stay inside me."

He ran his hand through her hair, sounding concerned when he noted, "You didn't cum."

"That's okay," she assured him. She didn't expect to have an orgasm every single time. But Bellamy did a hell of a job getting her there _most_ of the time.

"But sex with me is supposed to relax you," he said, "take your mind off . . . other things."

She averted her eyes for a moment, unable to shut off the thoughts of all those other things completely. The sex had been really nice, though, and since he was still inside her, she could feel these weird aftershocks, like his penis was pulsating. So she wasn't complaining in the slightest.

"What's wrong?" he asked her. "Did your dad say something to you?"

"No," she denied. But she'd be lying if she said his ridiculous offer wasn't still fresh in her mind. "I mean . . . not really." She looked down at his chest, pressing her hand to his heart, rubbing gently. "He said I should go home to Kansas and work for him."

Bellamy's hands stopped moving on her backside, and his expression changed from one of concern to one of . . . actual worry.

"I'm not gonna go, obviously," she assured him quickly. "I wanna stay with you." She kissed him, then bent down to rest her head on his shoulder. She nuzzled him, so happy and so relieved to just be there in his warm, strong arms right now. Whatever else went wrong in her life, she had Bellamy Blake. And he didn't need to worry about anything, because he had her, too. She wasn't going anywhere.


	62. Chapter 62

_Chapter 62_

After agreeing to meet her dad for coffee, Clarke made sure to get to the coffee shop early. Earlier than he would show up. Just because she didn't want to hear that she'd been running late again. Traffic wasn't so bad, so as it turned out, she was a little _too_ early. She ended up waiting for a while, which sucked, because when she was sitting there by herself with nothing to do . . . she was tempted to get her phone out and see what people were saying about her today. She still hadn't heard from Maya at all, which kind of scared her, so she ended up texting Harper, asking _Is Maya mad at me?_ A few minutes later, Harper texted back, _no she's just not sure what to think._ And Clarke wasn't sure what to make of that _._

Murphy and Emori came in while she was waiting, and Emori said, "Hey, Clarke."

"Oh, hey, guys." She quickly put her phone away, glad to have a distraction from it. "Early morning date?"

"More like an early morning ultrasound," Emori replied.

"Oh, I see." Clarke glanced at the other girl's stomach, noting that there was definitely a baby bump. Not a big one, and it didn't really look any different than it had at their shotgun wedding at the courthouse. But it was definitely there.

"Where's Bellamy?" Murphy asked, looking around.

"He's at work," she told him. "He got a job."

"Oh, yeah? That's great," Murphy said. "Where?"

"Some company." She couldn't remember the name of it, and come to think of it, Bellamy might not have even told her. "It's an office job."

Murphy nodded slowly and just said, "Huh." But he didn't need to say any more for Clarke to know that they were thinking the same thing. Bellamy and an office job . . . it just didn't mix.

"I'm actually waiting for . . . um, my dad," Clarke admitted. "I have a date with my dad."

Murphy gave her an incredulous look. "Wait, so that really was your dad the other night?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Holy shit. People were sayin' he was, but . . . wow, I didn't know." Murphy laughed a little. "I served him a drink. He seemed cool."

"Wait, you served him, so . . ." Emori glanced back and forth between her husband and Clarke confusedly. "So that means your dad was . . . he was there while you . . ." She cringed sympathetically. "Oh, boy."

"Yeah." It was pretty much any stripper's worst nightmare that her father would walk in and see her stripping, and lo and behold, that damn nightmare had managed to come true for her. "It's been interesting."

All of a sudden, her father came up behind her, having caught the tail end of the conversation. "What's been interesting?" he asked.

"Oh, just . . . everything," she said, deciding to quickly introduce all of them. "Um, Murphy, Emori, this is my dad, Jake Griffin. Dad, these are my friends, Murphy and Emori."

"Hi," Emori said.

"Nice to meet you two," he said, then invited, "Go ahead, sit down. Have coffee with us."

"Oh, we've got somewhere to be," Murphy said.

"But we can sit for a minute." Emori plopped down in the empty chair across from Clarke, and both Murphy and Clarke's father pulled up chairs from a nearby table.

"I recognize you," her father said, pointing at Murphy.

"Bartender at the club," he said.

"That's right." He glanced at Clarke and repeated, "The club."

"And I'm his other half," Emori jumped in. "Unfortunately."

Murphy gave her a fake exasperated look.

"Just kidding," she said, nudging his arm.

"Did you also work with Clarke?" her dad asked Emori, and Clarke nearly face-palmed. He realized he was pretty much just asking the girl if she'd been a stripper, didn't he?

"Just for a couple days," Emori answered. But her eyes enlarged as she realized what type of work he was referring to, so she quickly clarified, "At a restaurant, not the strip club. Not that there's anything wrong with working at the strip club. I'm just not coordinated enough to dance like that."

 _Good save,_ Clarke thought.

"So what brings you to town, Jake?" Murphy inquired.

Her father cast her a serious look and said, "Just wanted to check up on my daughter."

"Well, your daughter's awesome," Emori chattered. "She came to our wedding and everything."

"You're married?" Clarke's dad asked, sounding surprised.

Emori proudly showed off her wedding ring. "For a couple weeks now."

Murphy stretched his arm out, putting it on the back of her chair. "Yeah, we figured it'd be best to do that before the baby's born."

 _Oh, no,_ Clarke thought, cringing inwardly. Why did he have to go and mention a baby?

"You're pregnant, too?" her father said. Clarke could tell he was trying so hard to just sound friendly and not judgmental, but back where they were from, when young people got pregnant, it was usually a source of gossip, not celebration.

"Yep," Emori confirmed.

Murphy chuckled. "Wasn't exactly planned, but we're having a kid."

"Speaking of . . . you should probably get going," Clarke interjected, hoping she didn't sound too rude. "You got that doctor's appointment."

"Yeah, we should," Emori mumbled, standing up. Murphy put his chair back and yawned. Must've been too early for him to be awake.

"Well, it was nice to meet both of you," her father said. "Good luck with everything."

"Thanks," Emori said. "Bye, Clarke."

"Bye." She halfheartedly waved goodbye, wondering if introducing her father to her friends had done more harm than good just now. Now he'd be all paranoid that she was going to follow in their footsteps.

"They're so young," her dad remarked, putting his chair back, too, so he could take a seat on the opposite side of the small table. "Getting married, starting a family . . . the statistics aren't working in their favor."

"Well, they're people, not statistics," Clarke pointed out. She, for one, really, truly believed that Murphy and Emori could make it work.

Her father lowered his voice, leaning forward, and quietly mumbled, "Are you and Bellamy . . . well, I mean, do you use . . . protection?"

"Ugh, Dad." She cringed, having never had a conversation like this with him before. Her mom had been the one to give her the sex talk, and her mom had been the one she'd gone to when she'd needed to get on birth control before having sex with Finn. "Yes, okay? Don't worry, I'm on the pill."

"But does he wear a . . . you know, a condom?"

"Usually."

"Usually?"

"Yes, he—okay, look, Dad . . ." She shielded her face from him, so totally embarrassed. "I really can't have this conversation with you. We're safe, okay?" That was all he needed to know.

"What is that?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" She realized he was looking directly at her hand, the hand she'd brought up to cover her face, and dammit, that'd been a dumb thing to do. She had her ring on, and now there it was, staring him right in the face. She'd been wearing it the whole time he was here, but he was a man, and like most men, he didn't tend to notice jewelry; so it'd probably just slipped his attention until now. "It's not what you think it is," she quickly assured him. "Bellamy got it for me out of a claw machine. It's just a ring." She hated those words as they left her mouth, because . . . no, it wasn't _just_ a ring.

"Maybe you shouldn't wear it on that finger," he suggested.

She flashed back to Anya telling her to take the thing off altogether, and she felt compelled to at least let him know that it was important to her that it stay where it was. "Well, it's a promise ring," she clarified.

He gave her a disappointed look. "Oh, Clarke . . ."

"What?" Since when were promise rings something to be disappointed about? "I'm not getting married or getting pregnant today, Dad," she said, hoping he could have at least a little bit of faith that she wasn't on her way to becoming Emori. "But I'm gonna be twenty years old in, like, four months. I'm not a kid."

He shook his head sadly and agreed, "No, you're not."

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wanting to just get her coffee, get it down, and get out of there. Spending all this time with her dad was really starting to confuse her. Sometimes he was nice, and sometimes he was just so clearly not happy with her choices. And the worst part was, he didn't even realize how much his blatant lack of faith in her was hurting her feelings.

...

Bellamy's first day of his new job was so fucking boring. _Completely_ monotonous. His nightmare job, actually, and he was stuck there until 3:30. He sat in a cubicle in his uncomfortable suit, sorting through documents he had no clue about, and then was told that he was supposed to file them electronically. But no one told him how to do that, so he just sat around, trying to look busy, watching the clock tick closer to noon. He needed a break.

At five 'til, he heard a familiar voice remark, "Wow, this looks exciting."

He glanced up, relieved to see Miller there. He'd told his friend that it was his first day here and that he was going to need someone to come rescue him at some point during the day. "I'm goin' to lunch," he announced to the guy in the cubicle next to his. Randy or something? Randy was a total suck-up to their supervisor from what he could tell, and he worked incessantly.

"But it's five minutes early," Randy pointed out.

Bellamy really didn't care. "I'm goin' to lunch," he repeated, taking off his jacket and his tie before he followed Miller out.

Even though the fresh air outside wasn't really that fresh, it was a hell of a lot better than that stale, overly-clean office smell. They stopped at a food truck, got foot-long hot dogs, and sat down outside a café to eat.

"So what possessed you to get _that_ job?" Miller asked him.

He rolled his eyes. "Nothing. Clarke's dad found it for me."

"Clarke's dad?" Miller made a face. "Isn't he back in Kansas?"

"Not right now. He's gonna be in town for at least a week."

"Fun." Miller took a big bite of his hot dog, chewed it, swallowed, and then asked, "What's he like?"

"He's . . ." Bellamy couldn't quite put his finger on Jake Griffin, to be honest. "He's alright."

"Once more with feeling."

He cracked half a smile. "I don't think he's a bad guy or anything," he said, "but . . ." Part of him was still holding onto the anger he'd felt for the man that first night, when he'd come to their apartment and lambasted Clarke for working at Grounders. "He found out Clarke's been stripping, and he's not too happy about it."

Miller waited a moment, then said, "Well . . . can you blame him? I mean, if that's what Octavia was doing, how would you feel?"

Bellamy considered that, and he had to admit . . . he wouldn't be very happy. In fact, he'd probably be just as shocked and disappointed as Jake Griffin was.

...

"Clarke. I have been an absolute _mess_ for the past two days. I haven't eaten. I haven't slept. I haven't even gone to work."

Clarke sighed, trying to keep her voice calm, even as her mother's rose with hysteria. "I'm sorry," she apologized. She and her dad sat on the couch, her phone out on the coffee table, on speaker. This conversation with her mother had been dragging on for twenty minutes now. She felt like they just kept talking in circles, both of them saying the same thing over and over again. "I'm sorry you found out the way you did." She'd lost track of how many times she'd apologized.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" her mother demanded.

"Because I—I knew you wouldn't like it." She'd already said that, too.

"You think I like being lied to?"

"Abby, everything's okay," her father jumped in. "Clarke assures me she's done with that now, and we're working on getting her life back on track."

Clarke made a face. Her _life_ back on track? It wasn't really _off-_ track, not all of it, anyway. Sure, she didn't have a job right now, but she could find one.

"Where is she even living?" her mother asked shrilly. "Does she have a roof over her head?"

Hating that they were now talking about her like she wasn't even there, Clarke told her, "Mom, you know I have an apartment."

"Well, is that the truth, or is that a lie, too?"

Clarke threw her hands up in the air, having to bite her tongue to keep from saying something she'd regret.

"It's true," her father confirmed. "We're sitting in her living room right now. She lives here with her _new_ boyfriend, Bellamy."

"Bellamy?" her mother echoed. "I don't even know him! I've never even seen a picture of him!"

"I'll send you a picture, Mom," Clarke muttered.

"What's he like, Jake?"

 _Why not ask me?_ Clarke wondered. _I'm the one who knows._ But clearly her opinion didn't matter to her mom right now, so her dad's would hopefully be a good one.

"He's . . . fine," her father replied.

Clarke made a face again. What was _that_? Bellamy wasn't just _fine._ Bellamy was caring and amazing, and he'd been through a lot in his life.

"I got him a job, so he's not unemployed anymore," her dad made sure to say. It sounded like a jab.

"Oh, goodness," her mother fretted. "I need to come out there."

"No, Mom, please don't," Clarke begged. Too much parental energy would be . . . well, too much.

"Abby, I've got things under control," her father reassured. "You coming out here would just do more harm than good."

"She's my daughter, too, Jake. _Clearly_ she needs both of us right now."

"No, what I _need_ is . . ." Clarke stopped short, letting out a heavy, frustrated exhale. "Mom, I will see you soon," she reminded her. "I'll be home for your wedding. I mean . . ." It dawned on her, suddenly, that her mom might not want her there anymore, because of all the scandal that was following her now. "If you still want me in your wedding," she said quietly. It was weird, because as much as she hadn't wanted to be a part of it, being shunned from it would be even worse.

"Of course, Clarke," her mother said. "You're my . . . you're my maid of honor." She sounded like she started to cry when she said that.

As exhausting as this conversation had been, Clarke couldn't help but feel bad in that moment. She'd never meant to disappoint either one of her parents, and it sucked to know that she had. "You can meet Bellamy then, too," she said softly. "We'll both be there."

Her mother sniffled. "Okay."

"Okay." She was really dreading that whole trip back to Kansas, to be honest, but she'd make it brief, and if anyone tried to make her feel bad about that video, she'd just . . . well, she'd tell them to shove it up their ass or something.

"We're gonna let you go, Abby," her father said. "Take care." As her mother continued crying, he ended the call and sat back on the couch. "There you go," he said. "It's done."

She swallowed hard, nodding. Yep, it'd taken her dad practically forcing her to make that call to get her to actually go through with it. But it was over now. Hopefully the next one would be easier. "Are you going to Mom's wedding?" she asked him. "Do you know yet?"

He smirked and shook his head. "I didn't get an invite. Not yet."

That was probably for the best, though. As nice as it would have been to have two parents who still managed to give her some sense of _family_ after their divorce, the break-up had just been too nasty for that to happen. "I don't wanna go," she confessed. "I don't wanna watch her marry someone else. I don't wanna take attention away from her on her special day. But everyone's still gonna be talking about me. It's gonna be awful." She blinked back tears, wondering which of her old friends and acquaintances from high school would have the guts to call her a slut and a whore to her face, and which ones would stick to being keyboard warriors instead.

"You have to face things, own up," her father said. "Trust me, I can relate to how hard that is. But once you do it . . . you'll feel better."

She knew he was speaking from experience, from the experience of being outted _while_ in the midst of having an extramarital affair. If he could rebound from that, then surely she could rebound from this.

"How long are you staying?" he asked her.

"In Kansas? It'll just be a couple of days," she replied.

He nodded, quiet for a moment, before he moved a bit closer to her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and proposed, "What if it's a couple of weeks? Or months, even."

She frowned in confusion. What the hell was he talking about?

"You could come home for the summer, spend some time with your friends," he suggested. "I think it'd really be good for you."

The summer? The whole entire _summer_? Yeah, right. "Dad . . . that's not gonna happen, okay?" She stood up and started pacing the living room, wishing he'd just let up on the whole going back home thing.

"Because of Bellamy," he grumbled.

"No."

"Oh, really?" He gave her a challenging look. "Then tell me, what else do you have here that you're so unwilling to leave behind?"

She opened her mouth to say something, but . . . nothing came out. And she stopped pacing and just stood there like a deer in the headlights. Her best friend was gone, ironically _in Kansas_ now. She didn't have a job, she didn't have a nice apartment, but what she _did_ have was a reputation that would be hard to shake: The Girl Next Door.

"That's what I thought," her father said, standing up as well. He treaded into the kitchen to fill up a glass of water.

Clarke breathed in shakily, determined not to be rattled. Her dad was . . . right. But he wasn't saying anything she hadn't already known.

As if on cue, the door swung open, and Bellamy came in, already taking off his work clothes. Seemed like he couldn't get out of them fast enough. He didn't say anything, just made a beeline for the bedroom and shut the door. His first day at his new job must not have been the greatest.

Clarke went in there after him, snaking her arms around his stomach from behind, hugging him while he was in the midst of taking his shirt off.

"What's wrong?" he said, slowly turning around. He hugged her back, asking, "Bad day?"

"No." She'd definitely had worse ones. With her chin on his chest, she tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes. "I'm just really glad you're home."

He lowered his head just a bit to give her a kiss, and like always, a kiss from him made her feel a little bit better. Just a little bit, though. Just a little bit.

...

Second day on the job. Bellamy wasn't expecting it to be any less boring than the first one, which was probably why he struggled to get his ass out of bed and get there at 7:00.

"You're late," Randy noted smugly. "By ten minutes."

"I know." He took his tie off, even though that didn't follow the mandated dress code, and flopped down in his chair, doing a few spins just to entertain himself.

Randy just glared at him disapprovingly.

"I'll take ten minutes off my lunch break," he said, just to try to get the little asshole to lay off.

Randy snorted, shaking his head. "Typical," he muttered.

Bellamy slammed his feet down, stopping the chair's spinning. "You got a problem or something?" he demanded.

"Oh, no," Randy said, but it was kind of sarcastic. "It's just . . ." Again he looked at Bellamy and shook his head. "Guys like you don't even take a job like this seriously."

"Guys like me?" he resounded. What the hell did Randy in the next-door cubicle know about guys like him?

"Yeah. I know how you got hired," Randy claimed. "Had someone put in a good word for you, right?"

Bellamy lost some of his bravado in that moment because . . . dammit, that was true. He hadn't had a great interview, and there was no way he was the most qualified candidate.

Randy narrowed his eyes at him and snarled, "Well, not all of us have an influential father-in-law to fall back on."

Bellamy frowned, those words hitting him like a gut punch. He didn't have that, either, not technically. Jake Griffin wasn't his father-in-law, but someday, he would be, and when that day came, Bellamy really didn't want the guy trying to take control of his life like this, finding him work and buying him the clothes to match. He'd never allowed himself to be somebody's charity case before, and he didn't want to start now.

When he got home that afternoon, Clarke was out, so he called her dad over, told him he needed to see him right away. Jake showed up about twenty minutes later, looking completely calm when Bellamy opened the door. "You wanted to see me," he said as he came inside.

"Yeah. Here." Bellamy sure as hell _wasn't_ calm as he tossed nice shirts and pants and jackets at Jake. "Take these," he said. "All of 'em. I don't want 'em."

"You need them, though," Jake protested, immediately trying to hand them back.

"I can go out and buy a suit at the thrift store," Bellamy told him. "I don't care if it's not as nice. You bought those, so they're yours. They're not mine." He piled the fancy shoes into the other man's arms, too, happy to be rid of them. And the ties . . . he ran in the bedroom and pulled those out of the drawer, too, practically dumping them at his future father-in-law.

"Okay then," Jake said. He picked up all the pieces he'd dropped and carried everything over to the couch, setting it all down. "So how's the job going?" he asked as he started to fold the shirts up.

"I hate it," Bellamy blurted. "It's not what I wanna do. I don't wanna sit at a desk. I don't wanna wear a tie. I don't . . . I don't wanna work there." Today, his boss had come out and lectured him about how he couldn't listen to music on his phone while he was working. She said it needed to be completely quiet for everyone to focus. But it was so damn quiet that barely anyone even said two words to each other. They just sat on their computers and roamed through that office like zombies. It was ridiculous.

Jake folded a few more shirts, set them out on the arm of the couch, then stopped what he was doing and said, "Clarke's told you about me, hasn't she? About how I was wealthy and successful, until the truth came out about my sexuality?"

"Yeah." He'd never forget that night outside of town, the two of them caught in a hotel during a rainstorm. She'd really opened up to him that night, and that had really deepened their connection. "Big scandal. You lost everything." He knew the story.

"I had to work some jobs I wasn't so passionate about, just to make ends meet," Jake admitted. "But I fought and clawed my way back into the game, and now here I am. I've got a new business, new revenue, a whole new life." He smiled at Bellamy, noting, "That's what you could have."

Bellamy made a face. "I don't need a new life; I just need a new job." The other stuff was fine. Sure, his mom was likely drinking again, but his sister was going to college, so . . . one out of two. He'd take it.

"Do you have a high school diploma?" Clarke's father asked him.

"Yeah." He wasn't _such_ a slacker that he'd dropped out.

"Why didn't you go to college then?"

"Grew up poor. Let too many people convince me I could make it as an actor." Looking back, it'd been a mistake. He should have studied harder in high school and tried to get some scholarships.

"That's a tough industry," Jake said. "Most people don't make it, no matter how talented they are."

 _Then I guess I'm one of most people then,_ Bellamy thought dejectedly. "I'm confused," he said. "Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?"

Jake shrugged slowly. "I'm just trying to get to know you better, Bellamy. You're this huge part of my little girl's life. She thinks the world of you."

Well, Jake's 'little girl' was a huge part of Bellamy's life, too. So if her father wanted to get to know him, he wasn't going to just be an ass and shut him out. "What do you wanna know?" he asked.

Jake must have had his questions ready, because he didn't hesitate. "How old are you?" he questioned. "Twenty-one, twenty-two?"

"Twenty-three," Bellamy responded. "I'll be twenty-four in a couple months."

"Twenty-four," Jake echoed. "And yet you're dating a girl out of high school."

"She's nineteen," Bellamy reminded him. And she hadn't been in high school for year now.

"Yeah, she's nineteen," Jake said. "She's just starting out in the world. What made you fall for her?"

Bellamy didn't particularly like the tone of these questions. He felt like he was being put on the spot, interrogated. "I don't know, everything," he said.

"And you say you're in love with her?"

"I am." He wasn't just _saying_ anything; it was the truth.

"You ever been in love before?"

"No."

"So how do you know that this is it?"

Okay, now he was _really_ starting to get pissed. It seemed like Jake was trying to plant doubt in his mind or something. "I just know," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"How do you know you're gay?" he shot back. "You just are. You just know."

"No, it's not the same," her father argued. "I was born gay. You chose to love my daughter. Why? Because she's young and beautiful? Because she worked at your club and happened to live next door?"

"No, I just . . ." Bellamy made a face, glaring at him, taken aback by how intense these questions had become and how quickly they had become that way. "What're you gettin' at?" he wanted to know. "You think I don't love her?"

Jake hesitated a moment, a contemplative look in his eyes. "No, I think you do," he admitted slowly.

Bellamy made the mistake of breathing an internal sigh of relief, until . . .

"I'm just not sure if that's enough."

He stared at Jake in disbelief. What did that . . . how could that _not_ be enough? Finn hadn't loved Clarke, at least not the way she needed to be loved, but he did. He was gonna make sure she got the things out of life that she deserved.

But that look on her father's face just made it so clear: He didn't believe in him. And that was a hard pill to swallow. Because even though he knew he wasn't the perfect guy, he didn't feel like he was a complete loser, either. But Jake Griffin probably did. And because of that, Bellamy wasn't sure he'd ever have the guy's trust, or even his respect.

...

Clarke's intention had been to go thrift store shopping with Niylah that afternoon. But they'd had so much fun together that it had evolved into more than that. Before she knew it, she was wearing a new skirt and halter top from said thrift store and was out at a dance club she'd never been to before. And it was great. It was far enough away from Grounders that nobody recognized her. She just danced and had fun and lived it up. And she had a couple drinks, too.

"Mmm, thank you for this," she purred, staggering down the hallway with her friend after midnight. "I needed a girl's night."

"And you sure had one," Niylah said, helping her walk. "There we go. One foot in front of the other."

"This is it," Clarke said, stopping in front of her door. She took her keys out of her purse, fumbling around for the right one, and finally got the door unlocked. "Thanks, Niylah," she said, slipping inside. "Bye, Niylah."

Laughingly, Niylah echoed, "Bye."

She burped, shut the door, and tossed her purse and keys down on the floor. Holding onto the wall, she struggled to stay upright as she took her shoes off. Then she stumbled towards the bedroom and nearly bumped into Bellamy as he was coming out. "Hey," she said.

"Hey." He made a face and took a whiff of the air, which meant her breath must have smelled of alcohol.

"Sorry, I'm a little silly right now," she said, leaning into his chest.

He held onto her arms to keep her upright. "You got drunk?"

"Kind of," she admitted. "But it's okay. I kept my drink with me the whole time, so nobody could put anything in it."

He winced, then asked, "You didn't drive home, did you?"

"No, Niylah drove me." Rising up on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, "She's Number One now."

Bellamy didn't even say anything. He just kept looking down at her, almost . . . disapprovingly? No, that couldn't be right. "What?" she asked. "Why are you mad?"

"I'm not mad," he claimed. "Just . . . what if your dad was here right now and you came strollin' in like this?"

"Oh, please," she scoffed, "like he's never gone out and gotten drunk before." The truth was, her dad used to go to the bar a lot. She'd always thought it had just been to hang out with his guy friends, but now she realized he'd probably been hooking up with some of them behind her mom's back.

"I'm just saying, we don't need to give him any more reasons to judge us," Bellamy said.

She frowned. "Is he being nice to you?"

"I don't know," he mumbled.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . he doesn't _like_ me," Bellamy said, sounding like he'd convinced himself of that. "He doesn't think I'm good enough for you."

She pouted, hating that her dad was giving off that impression. "Well, that's okay," she said, wrapping her arms around his broad frame. "He doesn't think I'm good enough right now, either." The whole thing was starting to give her some major Arkadia vibes. Back there, her family had ended up not being good enough. It sucked having to try to measure up to impossible standards. "But hey," she said, "at least he got you a job." She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making her see the glass half full like that or if she was truly glad about that. Because she did know that Bellamy hated his new job.

"He only did that so we've got some money coming in," Bellamy grumbled, "so I can provide for you if you don't go back to Kansas with him."

She leaned back, furrowing her brow. " _If_ I don't go?" What the hell was that? _If?_ "Bellamy, I'm not going," she reminded him. "You know that."

He swallowed hard, and her stomach clenched.

"You do know that, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I know."

She narrowed her eyes at him, studying him as closely as she could in this very buzzed state of hers. "Oh my god," she said, letting go of him so she could stumble back out into the living room. "You think I would even _consider_ it?" she blared.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you did," he said, following her.

She whirled around, nearly losing her balance.

"It's been hard for us here, and it's gonna stay hard," he anticipated. "Probably for a while."

She felt . . . almost speechless. "Wow," she said, trying to process the words coming out of his mouth. "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"What?"

"You should know me better, Bellamy!" she yelled at him. "You should know I don't care if things aren't easy."

"Alright, maybe we shouldn't have this conversation when you're drunk," he suggested.

"No, let's have it. Right now." She wasn't so drunk that she wouldn't remember this in the morning. She was a little tipsy, but that was it. "I'm pissed that you think I would ever leave you," she said, holding back tears. "Don't you even believe me when I say I love you?"

"Of course I do." He rubbed his forehead, a clear sign that he was feeling stressed right now. "Clarke, that's not what I was saying."

"Because I do, you know. I _love_ you," she reminded him emphatically.

"And I love you, too." He came towards her and placed his hands on her hips. "Please, don't be mad at me."

"Look at this, Bellamy." She held up her left hand and pointed out, "I'm wearing this ring, aren't I?"

"I got it out of a claw machine," he mumbled.

"Yeah, but it still means something," she insisted, and then, a fear struck: What if it didn't mean as much to him as it did to her? "Doesn't it?" she squeaked out.

"Yes, it means something," he agreed.

"Okay, so . . ." She sighed shakily, reaching out to grab at his t-shirt, balling it up in her hands. "Don't think that I'm going anywhere then, 'cause I'm not."

"Come here," he whispered, enveloping her in a hug. "I'm sorry," he said, stroking her back and threading his fingers through her hair. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Well, he _had_ offended her, but . . . it was fine, she supposed. Maybe he'd just worded it wrong, and maybe she'd overreacted.

Feeling her stomach start to rumble, she said, "Bellamy, move," and pushed against his chest.

"Babe, I really am sorry," he said, still holding her.

"No, I'm gonna puke." She gave him a bit of a shove and raced down the hallway and into the bathroom before all the contents of her stomach came up. _Real attractive,_ she thought sarcastically. Knowing Bellamy, he'd come hold her hair back. He was always taking care of her.


	63. Chapter 63

_Chapter 63_

Clarke wasn't used to _quite_ so much Dad time. Even back when he'd lived in the same house with her, they hadn't spent every day together, because he'd always been busy with work. But since his trip was no longer much of a work trip, he seemed to want to do something with her every day. Not even sight-seeing, really, just . . . spending time together. He came over to her apartment as her hangover was passing, and she had to try to disguise the fact that she'd gone out dancing and drinking last night while they looked through photos on his phone. Some were old, some were more recent. He showed her a _lot_ of photos of him and Jaha, as well as some photos of Wells, her someday-stepbrother, she assumed.

"Do you remember when I took you to that Chiefs game back when you were fourteen?" he reminisced as he swiped through some pictures of him and his boyfriend at a KU game.

"Yeah. And I was more interested in watching the cheerleaders than the players," she recalled. "You should've known all the way back then that I was bisexual, Dad."

"Well, I was too busy watching the players," he said. "Instead of the cheerleaders."

"Maybe I should've known you were gay."

The managed to laugh about it a little, and . . . that was honestly refreshing.

"Excuse me," Clarke said when her phone rang. She didn't recognize the number on the screen, so she got up and walked into the kitchen to answer it. "Hello?"

"Hi, Clarke," a familiar voice responded, "it's Charmaine Diyoza."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up on end. Charmaine? As in porn-recruiter Charmaine? "How'd you get my number?" she asked quietly, hoping to keep her voice low enough that her dad wouldn't overhear.

"Just asked around," Charmaine replied. "I know your days as a dancer are done, but I wanted to run a new opportunity by you, something I think you'd find _very_ lucrative."

"Look . . ." Clarke made sure her father was absorbed in his own photos, then mumbled, "I'm not doing one of your movies. I've told you that a hundred times."

"No more movies," Charmaine declared. "I'm leaving those to McCreary."

Clarke shivered.

"He's got one more week of getting his ass fucked in jail, by the way," Charmaine informed her, "and then he's out. Don't worry, he'll leave you alone, though. And if he doesn't, just tell him Bellamy knocked you up. That'll get him to back off."

Clarke rolled her eyes in disgust. She didn't anticipate McCreary giving her any more problems now that she was no longer dancing at the club, but still, she hated the thought of the guy getting out of jail mere weeks after he'd roofied her. Although, from what she heard, due to his priors, he'd actually gotten a harsher punishment than a lot of guys did. Not that _any_ of it was harsh enough.

"I wanted to talk to you about doing some modeling," Charmaine said. "It's nude, of course, but very professional, very classy. We've already got your friend Roma on board. If you want, I can send you a link so you can see her pictures on the website."

Nude modeling? _That_ was Charmaine's lucrative opportunity? It was still porn, just one step down from films. "I'm not interested," she said, ending the call quickly. She was going to have to block that number so Charmaine would be less likely to try to call her again.

"Who was that?" her dad asked.

There wasn't a chance in hell she was going to clue him in on _any_ aspect of that conversation, so she lied, "Telemarketer," and went to rejoin him in the living room to look at more pictures of his new family.

...

"Shit," Bellamy swore when he pulled up to the restaurant—some fancy-ass placed called Imogen that he'd never even heard of, let alone been to—at 7:45 instead of 7:30. Clarke had warned him that her dad was a stickler for punctuality, and here he was running behind schedule. After work, he'd gotten stuck in some god-awful traffic on the way to Miller's, where he'd proceeded to spend way too much time helping his friend move Jackson's shit in. The couch had barely fit through the door, so now his arms were dead tired. Hell, _he_ was tired. But he wasn't bailing on this . . . this very awkward dinner date with Clarke and her dad.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," he apologized, bending down to give Clarke a kiss on the cheek before he sat next to her.

"That's okay," she said. "We had to wait to get in anyway."

"We ordered appetizers," Jake said.

"Sounds good." It'd probably be something disgusting like fish eyes or something, because this restaurant just kind of felt like _that_ kind of restaurant. "I can help pay for those," he made sure to offer.

"No, don't worry about it," Jake said. "This whole meal's on me."

 _Of course it is,_ Bellamy thought, swallowing his pride. Truth be told, he didn't want to spend sixty bucks on meals for him and Clarke, so if her dad was offering . . . hell, he'd better just suck it up and take it.

"We got blue cheese and pear tartlets," Clarke said, and before he could even ask what the hell those were, she said, "Apparently they're good."

"Very good," her father emphasized. "I'm trying to get her to expand her food choices."

"We could see if they got any alligator," Bellamy joked, smirking at her.

"Shut up," she said, laughing a little. "So how was your day?"

He shrugged, not really in any mood to talk about it. "Fine." He'd had to call tech support because his computer had shut off and wouldn't turn back on, so . . . that'd been something different.

"Do they allow you to wear that to work?" Jake asked, motioning to Bellamy's shirt.

He looked down at what he was wearing, not seeing anything wrong with it. Yeah, he had jeans on, but the long-sleeved black shirt was nice enough. "Well, I don't know if they allow it, but I did," he said, realizing he probably looked kind of out of place here at this restaurant. Clarke had told him her father had picked it and that it would probably be nice, but he'd underestimated just how nice. Everyone was wearing fancy clothes. Even Clarke had on a dress.

"I think you look good," she said, giving his bicep a good squeeze. Then she took a drink of what he hoped (and assumed) was just water and asked, "So, um . . . how long are you staying, Dad?"

"For a few more days," her father answered. But that was so vague, and Bellamy really wanted an exact number. Three, four? Five or six . . . sounded less appealing.

"It's nice to be able to spend so much time with you," Jake said, and then he tacked on, "And to get to know Bellamy, of course."

"Of course," he mumbled, not sure if the guy had actually enjoyed getting to know him at all.

"You know, I'd love to hear more about your background, your family," Jake said.

"My family?" That . . . wasn't something he cared to talk in-depth about.

"Yeah. You mentioned a sister, right?"

"Right." He sighed, relenting to . . . a conversation. About his family. Great. "Yeah, it was always just me and her and my mom," he said, trying to be as brief as possible.

"What's your mom do?" Jake asked.

"Uh . . ." Memories flashed through his mind, all the things he'd witnessed growing up. But that wasn't what she did anymore. Not that any of her more recent jobs would be all that impressive to a self-made businessman, either. "Just a variety of stuff, I guess," he answered vaguely.

Jake must have wanted a more concrete answer, but he didn't push it. "Are you close to her?"

The real answer to that question . . . wasn't what he wished it would be. "I love her," he said, figuring that would do. "She's had some shit to overcome, but . . . I love her a lot." Nothing about that was a lie, at least.

"Bellamy's a good son," Clarke jumped in. "And a really good big brother. He and his sister talk a lot."

"Not as much as we should," he mumbled, making a mental note to call her either tonight or tomorrow morning. Last he'd heard, their mom was . . . still hanging out with that guy. But Octavia hadn't said anything about her seeming drunk or stoned or anything.

"She came out and visited a while ago," Clarke went on. "It was fun. And now she's going to college."

"That's great," Jake said. "Education . . . that's important."

 _And that's something I don't have,_ Bellamy thought. Was that supposed to have been directed at him, or was he just being overly-sensitive and on-edge?

"So what about your dad, Bellamy?" Jake inquired. "What's he like?"

If he'd had any idea just how _fucked up_ that question was, he never would have asked it. "I don't have a dad," he said simply.

"Never met him?"

"No."

"Hmm. I'm sorry to hear that."

The whole conversation was starting to make Bellamy feel extremely uncomfortable. It wasn't even Jake's fault, necessarily. He just couldn't sit there and talk about his _dad_ , because whoever that was, he was just a monster who'd raped his mom. And whenever he let himself think about that too hard, he felt like he couldn't even breathe. Like right now. He just needed some air.

"You know, I think I left my wallet out in my car," he said, pushing his chair back. "I'm gonna go check for it." He got up and wove through the tables, making a hasty exit right out the front. He bumped into a woman who had on a hat that looked like it belonged at the Kentucky Derby, and he didn't even apologize.

When he got outside the restaurant, he hauled in a few labored breaths, trying to calm himself down. Yeah, he'd come into the world in a pretty disgusting way, but . . . that didn't define him. He wasn't a loser just because the son of a bitch who'd raped his mom was.

He spotted a man lighting up a cigarette meandering about the sidewalk, either just taking a smoke break or waiting for his reservation, and he asked, "Hey, can I have one of those?" He hadn't smoked for months, but tonight . . . why not?

"Sure." Even though New Yorkers weren't typically known for their generosity, the man handed him a cigarette and lit it up for him.

"Thanks." Bellamy puffed away on it for a minute or so, trying to work himself up to go back in there and make it through the dinner. He just had to get the conversation off of himself and onto Clarke or something. At least loving Clarke was one thing he and Jake had in common.

He was still smoking when, of all people to walk outside, there came Clarke. Clarke, who hated smoking, who'd discouraged him from doing it, who'd been glad that he'd quit. And who looked very surprised to see him lighting up right now.

He threw the cigarette on the ground and put it out with his shoe. "I'm not startin' back up again," he assured her. "I just wanted one to help with the stress."

She just looked at him wordlessly, disappointedly, and he felt like he'd let her down.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he apologized.

Staring up into her eyes, she blinked back what looked very much like tears and said, "You've been saying that a lot lately." And then she turned around and slinked back inside.

 _Dammit,_ he thought, his shoulders slumping, his head hanging. He didn't wanna let Clarke down. But between what he'd said last night and sparking up now, he was unfortunately getting pretty good at it.

...

Dinner ended up being disgusting. Bellamy wasn't even sure what he ate, but it wasn't anything he cared to eat again. He sat there and did his boyfriendly duty for two hours, through four courses of crap, and finally, Clarke said that her stomach was hurting and that they had to leave. She confessed on the way home that it wasn't hurting at all and that she'd just sensed how badly he wanted out of there.

When they got home, he took a shower, and she lay down the bed and tried to call Maya. Judging by the fact that she wasn't on the phone with her when he got out of the shower a few minutes later, it'd either been a short conversation, or she hadn't picked up.

Clarke had changed into one of his shirts and lay beneath the sheet, flipping through a magazine. He stood in the doorway with only a towel wrapped around his waist and watched her, taking in how sexy she could look without even trying. She looked even better now than she had in that dress tonight. She just looked . . . so, so sexy, and he wanted her to know that.

Moving forward, he took the magazine out of her hands, set it aside, and crawled on top of her, immediately latching his mouth onto her neck, sucking insistently on her smooth skin.

"What're you doing?" she said, laughing a little. Her hands roamed over his back and tangled up in his damp hair.

He just kept kissing her, addicted to the steady beat of her pulse beneath his lips. Her body felt so good and so small beneath him. He could feel her pebbled nipples beneath the t-shirt she was wearing, getting harder as they pressed against his chest.

"Bellamy." She tugged gently on his hair, getting him to lift his head so they could look at each other. He wanted to say something, to tell her how pretty she looked right now and how good she tasted and how much he wanted her, but why bother with words when he could just show her all of those things instead?

He crashed his mouth down onto hers, kissing her deeply and insistently, and the towel conveniently fell from his waist. He threw it aside, then peeled back the sheet covering her legs. Still kissing her, he rubbed himself against her, letting her feel that he was hard, that he wanted her more than anything.

She must have been a little caught off guard, but she didn't question it or slow him down as he grabbed hold of her panties and lowered them down her legs. He tossed them aside, too, lifted up her t-shirt far enough that he could suck on her tits for a bit, and then settled in between her legs as she spread them for him. He probed her entrance with the tip of his cock, then plunged his tongue into her mouth at the same time he pushed his dick in. She moaned into his mouth, her hips arching up off the bed a bit, and her hot, wet, tight pussy just sucked him right in.

He started thrusting right away, going with a fast, almost frantic pace. The mattress squeaked, and the whole bed rocked a bit as he fucked her. Her legs clamped around his hips, her hands clung to his arms and shoulders, and when she ground this impassioned out, " _Uh_ . . ." he thought he might shoot his load right that moment.

 _Fuck,_ he thought, pressing his face into her neck, lazily, messily kissing her. God, he wasn't gonna last long. She felt so good around his cock, so fucking good. Being inside her was such a rush, and he couldn't get enough. He just couldn't.

He pressed his hips forward as far as he could, wanting to bury himself in her to the hilt, wanting there to be no difference between where she ended and he began. His balls knocked against her, and he felt unbelievably close to bottoming out. But he didn't know if that was okay with her, and he didn't want to hurt her.

Shit, knowing that so much of him was inside of her, though, was too much, and he felt his whole groin tightening up. It was like every ounce of feeling in his body just zeroed in down there, and he knew he wasn't gonna be able to hold back.

"Pull out, Bell," she gasped, apparently sensing that he was close, too. "Pull out."

Thank God she said that, because in his haste to do her, he hadn't even put on a condom. When he was right about to shoot his load, he slid out, resting his cock on top of her pussy instead, and let himself cum. Some of it squirted onto her lower abdomen, some onto his. It was a quick orgasm, but he wasn't complaining.

It took him about a minute of just lying there on top of her to realize . . . she hadn't gotten there with him. Clarke wasn't one of those girls who ever tried to fake it, so it was really easy to tell whether she got off or not. And tonight . . . she hadn't. Only he had.

He sat up, flinging his legs over the side of the bed, and took a few breaths to steady himself. It hadn't taken long, but he'd worked up a sweat just now.

"That was good," she said, curling up on her side.

It was nice of her to say that, but it must not have been true. "No, it wasn't," he said, downtrodden. "You didn't cum again."

"Just 'cause there wasn't a whole lot of foreplay." She sat with him, moving in close behind him, and assured him, "It's fine. I still enjoyed it."

She probably had, but still . . . he felt like a failure. He was supposed to be good at sex, but what kind of guy couldn't even get his girlfriend off? And this was the second time in just a few days that he'd failed to do so. It wasn't a good feeling.

"Lie down," he said, carefully pushing her back onto the bed. "I gotta make you cum." He slithered down on the bed, putting his head between her legs, and she gasped sharply and arched her back up off the bed when his tongue darted out to taste her. He wasn't going to leave her hanging. He wasn't going to be the type of boyfriend who ambushed her with sex and only got himself off because of it. No. She'd already had that with Finn.

...

Clarke didn't object when her father called her up the next day and said he wanted to take her out to Central Park. It seemed like a chill enough way to spend a day while Bellamy was at work. Well, as chill as spending time with her dad could be. Once he went home, she'd have to hit the job application process hard and find _something_ so she could contribute some income to each month's expenses. But while he was here, she figured it was best to just spend time with him. Hopefully it was putting his mind at ease to . . . get to know her again.

"So you and Bellamy have never been here, huh?" he said as they walked along a vibrantly green grassy area, very expansive, next to a large, shimmering pond.

"No." Since the weather was nice, there were a lot of people there, some of whom were lying out on the grass or throwing food to the fish and ducks in the water, and kids who were running around chasing each other, not a care in the world.

"It's nice, isn't it?" her father said, slowing to a stop. "A little nature in the midst of this sprawling city."

She looked out on the water, remarking, "It's not so little. It's a huge park."

"It is," he agreed. "There's a lot we can do today. A horse-drawn carriage ride, some hiking, biking. Bird-watching." He angled himself towards her and asked, "You like birds, don't you?"

"I guess," she said with a shrug, although she'd never really given them much thought. "I mean, who doesn't like birds?" She wasn't exactly looking forward to hiking along a boring trail, craning her neck back to pretend to be all impressed with freakin' birds of all things, but her dad would enjoy it. And maybe she could get a much-needed workout in if she convinced him to jog with her.

"What's on your mind, Clarke?"

She hadn't realized she'd been spacing until he asked her that question. And she wasn't sure how to answer it, either. "It's just . . ." She hesitated, wanting to have an honest conversation with him without hurting his feelings in the process. "Dad, what're you doing to Bellamy?" she finally just asked. Because _that_ was what was on her mind.

His face scrunched up in confusion. "I'm doing something to him?"

"Yeah. He hasn't been himself lately. He thinks you don't like him." She waited for him to disagree, to assure her that, no, he _did_ like Bellamy. She gave him plenty of opportunity to say that, but he never did. "Seriously?" she whined. "How do you not like him?"

"It's not that I _dis_ like him," her dad clarified. "But he's a bartender, and a failed actor. I just wanted you to aim higher."

"I was a stripper, Dad," she reminded him. It wasn't like her job had been one of such high standards, either.

"Please, don't remind me," he muttered.

"No, I _will_ remind you," she said vehemently, "because it seems like you're looking down on my boyfriend just because he doesn't have the best job ever. But neither did I."

"Which is exactly my point," he said. "You would be better off with someone who already has his life together, because then he could help you get _yours_ together, too."

She huffed exasperatedly. "Dad, you don't even know . . ." If he had any idea the things that Bellamy had done for her, to try to help her and protect her, he'd realize how wrong he was. "You don't even know how much Bellamy cares about me," she said, thinking of what he'd done with Roan, and with Echo. "Everything he's done for me . . ."

"I care about you, too, you know?" her father pointed out. "And I wish you would come home to Arkadia with me, because I could be the one to _take_ care of you there."

"Dad . . ." Feeling like she was on the verge of tears, she shook her head, her mouth quivering as she tried to hold herself together. "I need you to let this go," she told him. "Because you're making Bellamy feel really bad about himself. And that's not okay with me." It felt a little strange, to be a child being stern to her own parent, to put her foot down with him instead of the other way around. But she needed him to know how serious she was, which was why she added, "And to be honest, if it comes down to him or you right now . . . I'm choosing him." She stared at him sadly, because it _did_ hurt to say that. It hurt to see him gulp, and it hurt to see him look away as the weight of that sunk in. But it was true. These days, her father wasn't the only one with a new family. She had one, too, and it was with Bellamy.

The rest of the day was a little awkward, but thankfully, Central Park had enough things to do that they could small-talk their way through it. After grabbing a bite to eat at one of the in-park restaurants, they did go on a few nature trails, and they did see some birds, too. But by later that afternoon, Clarke was tired, so she turned down the ride in the horse-drawn carriage and said she felt like going home.

As she was walking in the door, she got a phone call from . . . Maya? She actually dropped her phone because it was such a surprise, but she picked it up before it could go onto voicemail. "Hey, Maya," she said, so glad to finally hear from her friend. Ever since the video had come out, she'd talked to Harper, of course, and Monty and Jasper had called her and texted her, too. But Maya had been giving her the silent treatment.

"Hey," her friend said softly. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, no, not at all," Clarke assured her quickly. "I'm glad you called. I've been trying to get a hold of you."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, I just . . . I wasn't really sure how to react to . . . everything."

God, she was talking so quietly that Clarke could barely even hear her. She sounded so . . . unsure. Which was weird. Because Monty and Jasper had talked to her just like normal. "I understand," she said, trying to be empathetic. "Look, I'm really sorry I didn't tell you. But I just couldn't tell anyone. I didn't want anyone to know."

"Well, now _everyone_ knows," Maya reminded her. "A lot of people are still talking about it."

She winced, wishing that wasn't the case. "When do you think they're gonna stop?"

"I don't know," Maya replied. "Not for a while."

She sighed, nodding, reluctantly accepting that she was going to be a staple of the town gossip for at least a few more weeks—possibly even months—to come. "I've talked to Monty," she said. "He said he's not upset with me."

"Well, he really can't be. He's dating someone who did the exact same job," Maya pointed out. "And Jasper's . . . well, Jasper's a guy, so he doesn't see anything wrong with it."

Clarke laughed a little, until Maya went on and she realized it wasn't meant to be funny.

"But it's different for me," her friend said. "I'm a girl, just like you, and I don't . . . I just don't get why you would do that, Clarke. I mean, it's not like you. Or, at least not like the old you."

She leaned back against the wall, right there in the hallway, and slid down to the carpet, feeling like she was quickly becoming . . . deflated today. It seemed like both her father and Maya wanted to separate strip club Clarke from 'regular' Clarke. They weren't allowing themselves to see that they weren't separate things anymore. "I'm still the same person," she insisted. "I'm still your friend." Much as she'd waited for her dad to jump in and assure her that he liked Bellamy—which, apparently he didn't—she waited now for Maya to promise that they would be friends forever. But she got nothing of the sort, so she bravely asked, "Are you still mine?"

The absolute worst response was silence, and that was what Clarke got for a good five or six seconds before Maya mumbled, "I don't know, Clarke," before quickly ending the call.

She sat there, stunned, staring at her phone, feeling like someone had just pulled the rug out from under her. She'd known all year that she and her friends from high school were growing apart, that they weren't as close as they once had been. But she'd never believed that any of them would just _stop_ being friends with her. Not ever.

But it seemed like that was what was happening.

...

How could sitting at a cubicle all day be so exhausting? Bellamy wasn't sure, but he felt like he was coming home every day with no energy. He knew he wasn't sleeping well, and Clarke didn't seem to be, either, so they both went to bed early that night. However, it wasn't an undisturbed sleep, not when Bellamy's phone rang. He reached over onto the nightstand, noting the time—before midnight, holy shit—and answered with a simple, "Yeah?" not even checking to see who was calling.

"Hey, uh . . ." There was a lot of background noise, but it was clearly Murphy on the phone. "Just thought I'd let you know, Clarke's dad is here at the club," he said. "He's been here for a while. I don't really know what he's doin'. He's talkin' to a lot of people."

Bellamy propped himself up, not sure if he was hearing that right. "What?"

"Yeah, weird, huh? I wonder if he knows there aren't any male strippers."

Oh, he knew. There wasn't a doubt in Bellamy's mind that he knew. Besides, why would he go back to _that_ club? Unless he was trying to dig up some dirt or something . . .

"Anyway, just thought I'd let you know," Murphy said. He probably couldn't talk long; he was probably working.

"Yeah, thanks." Bellamy ended the call, completely caught off guard by this. Who the hell knew what was going on at that club tonight, what people were there, which girls were dancing. He wasn't sure if Anya's precious standards had kept deteriorating, but even if they hadn't, it was still a strip club. If Jake was roaming around there, he wasn't gonna like what he saw.

Getting out of bed, he left Clarke to sleep in peace and headed out into the living room. He gave her dad a call, surprised that he'd actually heard the phone and picked up. "Hey, Jake, it's me," he said. "You think you can swing by?"

About fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Bellamy, wearing jeans and a fresh t-shirt now instead of the boxers he'd worn to bed, opened it up and said, "Let's go out here, pointing out into the hallway. He shut the door and informed the other man, "Clarke's asleep."

"Hmm, she must be tired," Jake said. "We roamed around Central Park for most of the day."

Folding his arms, Bellamy remarked, "Well, I hear you've been roaming around Grounders tonight. What's up with that?"

"Well, I wasn't there to watch any shows, of course," Jake said. "I just thought I'd go there, try to get a better idea of this place that shaped Clarke's whole life here."

Bellamy nodded slowly. Yeah, it had been the root of a lot of things that had happened to her these past eight months. There was no denying that.

"You know, it's like there's this huge gap between who she used to be and who she is now," her father said sadly, traces of tears in his eyes. "There's a lot I missed out on this past year. I'm just trying to connect the dots."

Yeah, Bellamy understood that, as much as he could, because sometimes he felt that way with Octavia. But there was a better way to go about it. "You could've talked to her then," he pointed out. "You don't have to go talk to other people."

"I do, though," Jake insisted. "Because I just get the sense that there are things she's not telling me."

Bellamy tensed, thinking about some of those things. Yeah. Yeah, there were . . . there were things.

"So I went and asked people what it's like there, what it's like for the girls," Jake said. "I talked to some of them, talked to . . . oh, that woman who runs it. Blonde, Asian."

"Anya." Hopefully Anya had sugarcoated some things.

"Right. And then I talked to some of the people who come to _watch_ the girls. They didn't know I'm her dad, so they were quite . . . candid." He let out a shuddering exhale and shook his head in disgust. "Some of the things they said about her . . . if that's the kind of talk she had to endure . . ."

It was. Bellamy was sure of it. Whatever they'd called her, whatever they'd said about her . . . they said it to her face. "I think she tried to tune it all out," he said, feeling like she'd done a better job with that than he ever had. His blood still boiled thinking about the two guys who'd been joking about raping her.

"I heard about the girl who got pregnant and then overdosed," Jake said. "She used to be the best, and then Clarke came along, and then she was the best. And you knew that. You stood at that bar and watched it happen."

He frowned, wishing he hadn't. If he could go back, he would have jumped right up there on that stage and hauled her off. Even if she hated him for it, even if it changed things between them. "I tried to tell her not to work there," he said, but it just seemed . . . weak.

"Well, it didn't work," Jake growled. "Because even though she doesn't work there anymore, there are _still_ people in that club talking about the . . . what is it? The Girl Next Door?" He made a face, scoffing, "They're selling things with her picture on it. She's still in the window, front and center in this group photo, hardly wearing any clothes. I mean, even if she never goes back, I don't know how she's ever gonna overcome this type of . . . stigma."

"I'll help her," Bellamy promised. Clarke didn't have to be the Girl Next Door forever. She could just be Clarke Griffin. And hopefully Clarke Blake one day.

"Of course you will," Jake said, but his words were laced with sarcasm. "Just like you helped her the other night, when a would-be rapist slipped something in her drink."

Bellamy tensed, averting his eyes, hating that her dad knew about that now. Who had told him? It wasn't anyone's place to share that with him. Clarke should have been the one to tell him, if she'd ever wanted to.

"Yeah, I heard about that," Jake said somberly. "Somebody drugged my daughter. Do you have any idea how upsetting that is?"

Yeah, it upset him, too. In ways he couldn't even describe. But he wondered if it was different for a father. It had to be, right?

"And I don't even know if that's the worst thing that happened to her," Jake went on. "Is it?"

Bellamy felt his whole chest clench. He couldn't lie to the man and tell him that, yes, it was the worst thing. Because as bad as it was, there had still been a guy named Roan, and he'd still pressured her to do things she didn't want to do.

"You won't tell me," Jake said. "Because you're protecting her. Or at least you're trying to." Narrowing his eyes, moving a little closer, he asked, "But have you done that, Bellamy? Have you _really_ protected her?"

Fuck, if that wasn't a punch in the gut to have to think about that. Because he wanted to be able to say yes. He wanted to believe that. But if he had, then she never would have ended up in that alley with Roan. She never would've dealt with the constant harassment, the taunts, and the danger. "I've tried," he said, thinking about all those tears she'd cried the night he'd gotten her away from Roan. He'd been too late then, just like he'd been too late to stop McCreary from putting something in her drink. Hell, she'd even gotten a black eye at one point this year, and he hadn't even been there for that.

"I know you probably try to take care of each other," Jake acknowledged. "You're in this together, right?"

 _Us against the world,_ he thought, looking down at his feet. It sounded a lot more romantic than it actually was.

"But she's nineteen. She's just a young girl. You and I both know that, ultimately, you have more of a responsibility to take care of her than she has to take care of you."

He swallowed hard, slowly raising his eyes to look at the man who . . . wasn't impressed by him. It wasn't that Jake Griffin hated him; he just didn't think he was good enough for his daughter.

"And it's good that you tried," Jake went on. "I'm glad she's had you. You've probably prevented dozens of situations from being . . . worse." He stared at Bellamy intently for a few seconds, sighing heavily. "But that doesn't change the fact that she's still been in danger," he said. "She's still been objectified and hurt. Maybe even traumatized."

 _Traumatized?_ he wondered, worrying. That was exactly what he _didn't_ want for Clarke, to have all sorts of painful memories that never left her, never went away.

"The things that she's done this past year . . . they'll stick with her forever," her father predicted. "But you know that, don't you? You have things that stick with you, too."

His jaw trembled as he tried to keep himself together, tried to neither agree nor disagree, even though it was obvious. Yeah, there were a hell of a lot of things that stuck with him, things that went all the way back to a less-than-ideal childhood. And there were more recent things, too, like getting jumped in the parking lot, and having sex with Echo just to gain her cooperation. There were things he'd done that he wasn't proud of, and things that had happened that made his skin crawl. But _he_ was supposed to be the one dealing with trauma, because he was used to it. Not Clarke.

 _Not Clarke._


	64. Chapter 64

_Chapter 64_

Feet pounding the pavement, Clarke debated whether or not to a run another mile or just stop at the upcoming crosswalk. She could have kept going, and since she hadn't worked out for about two weeks, she probably needed to. Unfortunately, her partner looked gassed, so she slowed to a stop at the end of the block.

"Shit, Clarke," Murphy gasped when he finally caught up to her. Bending over, he put his hands on his knees and panted for air. "I can't run anymore. I can't breathe."

"You should stop smoking," she suggested.

"Probably," he agreed, standing up, holding his side as though it hurt. "Before the baby's born."

Definitely before then. As far as she knew, Emori used to smoke but didn't anymore, so maybe she'd be able to convince her husband to give it up, too. "Well, thanks for tagging along with me," she said, strolling across the street when the _walk_ symbol appeared.

"No problem," Murphy wheezed, dragging himself behind her.

"Normally, I'd ask Bellamy, but he's working every day now, and Harper's not around, so . . ."

"So I'm your last resort?" he concluded.

"Pretty much." She had to slow her pace and give him a shove just to get him back up on the sidewalk before the lights changed. "It's okay, though," she said. "You don't have to run with me all the time. I can do it on my own."

Still holding his side, Murphy hobbled towards an empty bench and eagerly sat down. "I thought you only worked out 'cause of . . . you know, stripper stuff," he said.

"Well, I wanna stay in shape," she said, looking down at her stomach, feeling like she was still pretty toned. "For me and . . ." She trailed off, averting her eyes.

"For Bellamy?" he filled in.

"Maybe," she mumbled. Not that her relationship with Bellamy was dependent solely upon physical attraction alone. But he looked good for her, so she wanted to look good for him, too.

"Hey, there's nothin' wrong with that," Murphy said. "I'm all for Emori workin' out after the kid's born."

Clarke _really_ doubted Emori would have any time to work out, but if it helped, she could recommend some sexual positions that gave a girl a very good cardio workout.

When she started thinking about sex, she started thinking about Bellamy, naturally, and with thoughts of him came . . . questions. Questions she'd be better off asking a guy than someone like Harper or Emori. "Can I ask you something, Murphy?" she inquired, taking a seat beside him.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he replied, "Sure."

"It's kind of . . . personal," she warned.

"Nothing's too personal."

She sighed, then blurted out, "Bellamy turned me down for sex this morning."

Murphy made a face. "Too personal."

"It's just . . . is that weird?" she wondered. "I mean, isn't it unnatural for a guy to do that? Don't guys feel like having sex _all_ the time?"

"No, we're—we're men, not machines," Murphy reminded her.

But Bellamy was _like_ a machine with her. He could keep going and going if that was what she wanted. But lately, he seemed worried that she hadn't been getting off on it as much. Which wasn't his fault. She had a lot on her mind, and they hadn't exactly had the most time to just . . . get down. But the other night, he'd ended up _going_ down on her, and it'd felt amazing. Just like it always did. And she'd had an orgasm. So it didn't seem like it could just be an insecurity thing on his end.

"I mean . . . it _is_ a little weird," Murphy finally acknowledged. "But this whole thing with losing his job and starting up a new one, right as your dad comes to town . . . that's gotta be stressful for him."

"But I thought sex would _de_ -stress him."

"Clarke." He gave her a look, a completely unconcerned one. "Don't dwell on it. He's just got a lot going on right now. I mean, I probably didn't help when I called him last night."

She tilted her head to the side, confused. "You called him?" She must've slept through that.

"Yeah," Murphy said, "I thought he should know about your dad."

Her _dad?_ Huh? "What about him?" she asked.

For a second, Murphy fell silent. He looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights. "He didn't tell you?"

She shook her head. No. Whatever there was to tell, Bellamy hadn't said anything to her about it this morning.

"Uh . . . your dad was hanging out at the club last night, talking to a lot of people," Murphy explained.

 _What?_ She would have thought her father never would have set foot in that place again, because he wouldn't even like to think of her working there. "What was he talking about?" she asked, afraid she already knew.

Murphy stared at her sympathetically for a few seconds, then quietly answered, "You."

 _Me,_ she registered. _Of course._ Her dad's whole trip to New York had ended up being about her. It hadn't started out that way, but it was a rescue Clarke mission now, and she was, quite frankly, fed up with it.

She ended up lying and telling Murphy she was going to run another mile, so he walked home while she went . . . elsewhere. And in fairness, she _did_ run some of it. But she ended up having to hop on a bus, because her dad's hotel was just too far away, and she was too impatient to get there and give him a piece of her mind.

She marched down the hall to his room and pounded on the door. That alone must have made it clear she wasn't happy, but he still answered with a smile on his face and said, "Oh, good, I was just about to call you." He left the door hanging open and moseyed over to the TV to shut it off. "Dinner tonight? My treat."

"Dad." She went inside and shut the door firmly, determined to be stern and direct about everything she was feeling. "I can't take this," she told him. "I can't take you being here if you're constantly gonna be making things difficult on me and Bellamy."

He made a perplexed face. "What did I do now?"

Oh, as if he didn't know. "You went to Grounders last night," she reminded him accusatorily. "And you sure as hell didn't go to watch the women dance."

He sighed, flapped is arms against his sides, and said, "I wanted to find out more about that place. That's all."

"No, you wanted to stockpile ammunition to use against me," she shot back, "so that when I stand here telling you that I'm fine and I can handle my own life, you can throw all sorts of things back in my face to try to _prove_ that I'm all . . . lost or whatever."

"No, I went to that place and talked to some people because you won't talk to me about it," he argued, his voice a lot calmer and steadier than hers was. "You expect me to just accept what's happened to you and move on. But I won't do that, Clarke. Because when I hear stories about how my little girl endured sexual harassment on a nightly basis and how somebody slipped a drug into her drink, then yes, I _am_ concerned."

She flinched, unable to be mad at him for that. He was her dad. Of course he was worried about things like that. Just like Bellamy had been worried. Just like _she_ had been worried, even though she'd forced herself to get through it.

"Are you really so numb to all of that?" her father asked in astonishment. "Does it really not affect you?"

Of _course_ it affected her. From now on, she'd never leave a drink unattended, not even for a second. Maybe she should have known not to do that before all of this, but things like date rape just didn't happen back in small town Arkadia. And the memory of the things she'd done with Roan would never go away, but that was all over now, and . . .

"Look, Dad, when you work at a place like Grounders . . ." She swallowed hard, trying to think of a way to explain things to him without discrediting his concern. "You have to block out what people say. And I learned how to block that out while I was up there on stage. And as for the . . . other thing . . ." She didn't even want to say it, because it sent a shiver up her spine. "It was bad," she admitted, "but at least it wasn't worse."

Her dad stared at her intently, eyes narrowed, then shook his head. "I hate that you're so resigned about it."

She glared right back at him, not willing to accept that unflattering label. "I am _not_ resigned," she argued, "to any of it. I quit because I'm not resigned, because I got fed up with it. Would you just-" She threw her hands up in the air, feeling like he was honestly looking down on her, judging her decisions so harshly that he was making her feel bad about making them in the first place. "Would you just give me some credit, Dad?" she pleaded, her voice quivering. "I know you don't agree with my choices, and I know I've made some hard-to-understand ones, but . . ." Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried (and failed) to keep any tears from spilling out. "This is my life, and you have to let me live it," she said, wishing he could just trust her and trust that Grounders had been a temporary thing for her, never something long-term. He probably wouldn't, though, because he was too stubborn. And ultimately, what he wanted was for her to leave this whole town and come back home and work for him instead.

"Clarke-"

"I am not going back with you to Kansas," she cut in, feeling like he was about to offer up that plea again. "So we can either enjoy the rest of our time together in New York City, or you might as well go back now. Because I'm sick of this." She spun on her heel and walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. The ball was in his court now. Either they tried to reconnect, or they just grew further apart.

...

Lunch break was over, but Bellamy didn't bother to get up and leave the break room when the rest of the employees did. They were all like robots, automatically conditioned to groan and complain about it being time to get back to work, all engineered to get up from the table at the exact same time and trudge on out of there. None of them asked him if he was coming. None of them even talked to him. He sat by himself in there every day, because he didn't have anything in common with any of them. The only other person who worked there who was even close in age to him was Randy, and Randy was a stuck-up prick who didn't even take lunch breaks most of the time.

 _Screw that,_ he thought as the last person left the room. They could all go back to their cubicles and suffer through the monotony of the rest of the day. He was gonna draw out lunch for as long as he could.

He was done eating, so he took out his phone and called his sister. He doubted she'd be in class, because she had an early release in her schedule. Besides, even if she was supposed to be there, she'd probably just skip.

"Hey," she answered after the third ring.

"Hey." He looked around the empty break room, wishing she were sitting there face to face with him right now. "You in the middle of something?"

"Just excessive not studying."

He could practically _hear_ her smirking. "Oh, that's right, you got finals coming up."

"I don't really care about them," she said flippantly. "Already got into college, so what's the point?"

"Hmm." He hadn't killed himself studying for finals, either, especially not his senior year, but he'd usually at least flipped through his notes for most of them. "You excited about graduation?" he asked, picturing her in that big robe. It was kind of a one-size fit all type of thing, and the robes just got re-used year after year. As small as she was, she'd be swimming in hers.

"No. It's gonna be boring," she predicted. "You remember Andrea Mason in my class?"

"No."

"Really? She used to be my friend. She had a huge crush on you."

He leaned back in his chair so far that he nearly tipped over. "All your friends had a crush on me," he pointed out. Octavia had only ever had one sleepover, during one of their mother's sober periods, and only three of the six invited girls had shown up. But each one of them had spent the majority of their night trying to flirt with him in their own middle school way, so Octavia had never had any other sleepovers after that.

"Well, anyway, she's a total bitch now, but somehow _she_ got valedictorian," Octavia said, the disdain evident in every word. "I really don't wanna listen to her speech. It's probably gonna be about Princeton or something, 'cause that's where she's going. Ooh."

Princeton, huh? Someone from Trikru headed to the Ivy League. Wonders never ceased. But there was nothing wrong with Octavia going to LSU. That in and of itself was an accomplishment.

"Yeah, well, hey, listen . . ." He cringed, wishing he could commit to being there and listening to that crappy valedictorian speech with her. But he couldn't. Money was in the way. "I can't afford a flight for that weekend," he told her, disappointed. He should have booked one earlier, not that it would have been much cheaper. "I don't know if I can come," he said sadly. "I mean, I guess I could drive, but . . . I just got a new job, and I might get fired if I miss too much work."

"That's okay," she assured him quickly. "You don't have to come."

"But I want to, if you want me there." If she told him to come to her graduation, then he'd just take the time off work, and if they fired him, then so be it. His family came first. "Plus, I could check up on Mom," he said, although . . . there was no telling how she would react to seeing him again. It'd been years since he'd darkened that door, and as good as his intentions were with her, it was possible that one look at him might send her spiraling. "How's she doin'?"

Octavia paused a moment, and her chipper tone vanished when she replied, "Alright, I guess. I don't know. She told me she's been feeling 'tempted.' But she _claims_ she hasn't had anything to drink. And then she claims she's going back to her AA meetings, too, but . . . I don't know what to believe."

Sad as it was to say, he _didn't_ believe his mom. She wasn't going back to any meetings. And she'd probably given in to that temptation again. That was how it always happened. She had a drink or two here, a drink or two there, and it just escalated, and before any of them knew it, it wasn't just alcohol that she was addicted to again. It was any drug she could get her hands on.

"You shouldn't have to deal with all that," he said, wondering how things might have been different for her, easier, if he'd just gone to college somewhere in Louisiana instead of striking out to pursue his ridiculous acting dream.

"It's fine. Don't worry about me," Octavia said, once again trying to make him feel better. "And don't worry about coming to my graduation. I might not even go."

He frowned, wanting her to at least have that moment for herself. "You should." For people like him and Octavia, graduating high school had never been a certainty.

"We'll see," she said. "What about you? What's going on there? You said you got a new job?"

"Yeah." He looked around the empty room, listened for a second to the annoying hum of the vending machine, and inhaled the scent of coffee that never seemed to perk anyone up around there. "It sucks. And Clarke's dad's in town, and that sucks, too."

"What? Why?" she asked. "Does he not like you?"

That was what he'd thought at first, but now . . . it seemed like more than that. "He doesn't think I'm good enough," he told her. That, in a lot of ways, was worse than simply not being liked. Why, though? He should have been used to it. He'd grown up with a mother who hadn't thought he was a good enough son. He'd put himself in front of hundreds of casting agents who thought he wasn't good enough to play the part. It shouldn't have come as any surprise that he didn't measure up to Jake Griffin's standards, either.

"Well, then he's an idiot," Octavia said. To her, it was just that simple. "Bellamy, you're a good guy."

As much as he would have loved to believe that, prior to getting involved with Clarke, he'd been a guy who just hooked up with random chicks and even used sex to try to advance his career from time to time. "I could be better," he admitted. He was _trying_ to be better, but . . . what if it wasn't good enough?

"Don't worry about what he thinks," Octavia said. "Clarke loves you. And she's lucky to have you."

He frowned, thinking about that word. _Lucky?_ Was Clarke really _lucky_ in any way? Because luck hadn't been on Clarke's side since she moved here. Grounders, Finn, Roan, McCreary . . . everything had been against her. And he hadn't been able to shield her from it. From any of it. So really . . . how lucky could she be?

...

When Bellamy got home, he heard music. Just light strums on a guitar coming from the bedroom. Clarke was playing music again.

He took off his shoes, set his measly paycheck down on the counter, and headed into the bedroom, hoping to just be able to stand in the doorway and watch her play. She was sitting on the bed, her back towards him, so she didn't see him there. She didn't seem to be playing any real song, but the chords she was playing were . . . kind of sad-sounding. And she looked sad, too. Eventually, she stopped playing for a few seconds and just sat there, and he saw her shoulders move up and down a bit, heard her sniff back tears. Was she crying?

"You okay?" he asked, stepping into the room.

She looked over her shoulder and tried to put on a happy face at first. "Yeah." She must have realized how unconvincing she was, though, because as he came to sit down beside her, she amended, "No. Not really." She set her guitar down on the floor and mumbled, "I fought with my dad today."

Fought? Like they'd had an argument or one of them had just yelled at the other or what? "Why?" he asked, feeling like that was the more important question.

"Because I just feel like . . . like he's trying to make both of us feel bad," she said. "Don't you?"

He didn't want to rag on her dad, because he didn't want her relationship with him to become as strained as his relationship with his mom was, but . . . he understood her frustration. "I don't know if that's what he's _trying_ to do, but . . ."

"But that's what's happening," she cut in. "And then there's Maya, who doesn't really wanna talk to me. And my mom . . . we don't even know what to say to each other."

He winced. Sounded like him and his mom. Great.

"It's like they all have this image of me in their minds, me today versus the me they know. And they can't understand that I'm still the same person." She blinked back fresh tears, shaking her head angrily. "I mean, you understand because you knew me when I first came here, and you know me now."

"Yeah." He thought back to his first interactions with Clarke and how innocent and naïve she'd seemed. "You have changed, though," he admitted.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well . . ." Maybe she hadn't changed in the way her parents and friends back home thought she had, but he wasn't going to sit there and act like she wasn't any different now than she had been before. "Alright, obviously I never knew you back then, but from what you've told me, everything that went down with your parents . . ." He hesitated for a moment, trying to think of a way to say this without upsetting her even more. "That was really bad, and it was really hard on you. But now, you've almost had to get used to bad things happening."

She looked . . . a bit taken aback by that assessment, and she even narrowed her eyes at him and challengingly asked, "So you think I'm resigned?"

"No, I didn't say that." That wasn't the right word.

"Because that's what my dad said."

 _Oh, crap._ Would've been nice to know that. "No, I just think . . . this city takes a toll on everyone. Including you," he tried to explain. She knew that just as well as he did. She'd seen Ontari, Vivian, and Roma all make decisions that took the down darker paths this year. And Ontari wasn't even alive anymore to change her life around. Clarke wasn't blind to how much life in the Big Apple could suck sometimes. She'd witnessed it, _and_ she'd experienced it.

"Let me ask you something," he said, angling his body towards hers, his stomach churning with nervousness as he found the courage to talk about one of the obvious elephants in the room. "If it wasn't for me, would you go back home with your dad?"

She leaned back a bit, looking almost . . . offended that he would even ask. "What kind of question is that?"

"An honest one." He just needed an honest answer. She didn't have to worry about hurting his feelings.

She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then replied, "No. I don't wanna go back there."

Because her reputation was ruined. Yeah, he got that. But if her dad could rebuild his reputation, then surely she could rebuild hers.

"Bellamy, you're making me nervous," she admitted, reaching over to his lap to put her hand on top of his. "Don't let him get to you, alright?" she said. "He'll be gone soon, and then things will go back to normal. I promise."

 _Normal?_ he thought, not sure what normal was for them anymore. They both had to get onto some new paths in life now that Grounders wasn't an option. And sure, he was already on one with his new job, but he hated it. And he was _so_ worried that, whatever job Clarke ended up with, she would never be able to shed the Girl Next Door persona here.

He wanted to be optimistic, but with _normal_ being such an unknown to them right now and her dad hovering over their shoulders, it just sort of felt like they were . . . lost.

...

Fresh fruit sounded so good. With the summertime months approaching, it was going to get hot, and on especially sweltering days, Clarke loved biting into a juicy orange or savoring some watermelon. Unfortunately, fresh fruit was expensive, too expensive from her. So even though she entertained the thought of loading up her grocery cart, she knew canned fruit would have to suffice. She had a budget for grocery shopping today. No more than fifty dollars. That was gonna be tough.

As she pushed her cart away from the fresh produce, she collided with another cart and quickly apologized, "Oh, sorry." She barely glanced at the other woman, but when she did, she stopped moving forward, because it was Anya.

"Clarke," her former boss greeted. "It's good to see you."

 _Is it?_ Clarke wondered. She'd quit on the woman pretty abruptly and had run off the stage at the beginning of her final show.

"How have you been?" Anya asked.

She could have lied and said she'd been great, never better, but she shrugged and went with a more honest, "Fine," instead.

"And Bellamy?"

Bellamy . . . had been pretty down in the dumps lately. But hopefully that would change one her dad left. "He's fine, too," she answered. "He's got a new job."

"That's great." Anya didn't ask where, and Clarke was relieved because she didn't even know the name of the company Bellamy was working for. He'd told her once, but she'd forgotten, and she'd never asked again because it was so obvious how much he hated talking about that job.

"Well, I'm glad you guys are . . . doing well," Anya said awkwardly.

Clarke shifted a bit ,wondering if Anya still would have thought they were doing well if she knew about this fifty dollar grocery budget.

"We hired a couple new girls this week," Anya went on. "I don't know if they have quite the same talent you did, though."

 _They probably don't,_ Clarke thought. Pole-dancing had come naturally to her, but she'd also put in a lot of work to get good at it.

"And Niylah . . . well, Niylah's drawing crowds, but . . . not the same kind of crowds you were."

Clarke made a mental note to call her, ask her how things were going, maybe even give her a little advice if she needed it. But she couldn't help wondering if maybe bringing all of this up was Anya's subtle way of trying to rope her back in. "I'm not coming back," she said decisively.

"I know. I'm not asking you to."

"In fact, I'm gonna go fill out some applications today." Once she dropped these groceries off at home, she was going to drive all around and see what she could find.

"That's good," Anya said. "Feel free to use me as a reference."

A _reference?_ Clarke almost laughed at that. What was Anya going to tell people, that she could do a graceful back hook and had never once fallen off the pole during a show? "No offense, Anya," she said, "but being a Grounders Girl isn't exactly something I'm gonna mention in an interview." She backed her cart up a bit, pushed it around Anya's, and mumbled, "Good luck with the club," as she continued on her way. To the canned fruit aisle.

"Take care, Clarke," she heard her boss say.

...

Bellamy got home late. His car had been having problems this morning, so he'd shown up to work an hour late. But instead of being understanding of that, his boss had decided to make him stay an hour late to make up for it. And after that, he'd been in such a bad mood that he hadn't felt like going straight home.

He was still in a bad mood, but he hoped that Clarke would be able to get him out of it. Unfortunately, she wasn't home when he got home, either. He'd just changed into his non-work clothes and was about to start up some dinner and call her when she came in the door.

"Oh, good, you're home," she said, practically skipping into the kitchen. "Guess what? I think I got a job today."

"Really?" He hadn't meant to sound so surprised. Of course Clarke could get a job. "Where?"

She set her purse down on the counter and replied, "At a restaurant."

"Oh, yeah? Which one?" Hopefully not Dropship.

She bit her bottom lip nervously and said, "Don't freak out, okay?"

He scrunched his forehead up, confused. Freak out about what?

She unzipped her purse, reached in, and pulled out what looked like a small white shirt. A tank top. And when she held it up, he understood _why_ she thought he might freak out. Because right there on that shirt, in orange bubble letters, was the Hooters logo.

"Are you serious?" he said.

"Yeah." She held the shirt up to herself, and he wasn't sure how it was going to fit. Clarke was a small girl, but she had a big chest. Did that shirt stretch out or something, or had they given her one size too small just so she could show a ridiculous amount of cleavage?

"I went in to fill out an application, but they didn't even have me do that," she said. "The manager just sat me down for an interview right there in the restaurant. She asked me about myself, my personality. I didn't even have to talk about my past jobs, so I just told her I was a cheerleader and a dancer, and I tried to be really bubbly and outgoing. And I guess it worked, because she told me to come back tomorrow to do some training. If I do well with that, then I've got a job." Smiling, she handed the shirt over to him.

"At Hooters," he said, eyes fixed on the logo. There was an owl behind the word, and the O's of the name served as its eyes.

"Bellamy, it's a _restaurant_ ," she said, as if to remind him.

"Where you hardly wear any clothing." He knew plenty about Hooters. He'd gone there several times.

"It's a tank top and short shorts. I wear the same thing when I go running," she pointed out.

"But it's not just . . . it's not just any restaurant, Clarke," he argued, feeling like they couldn't _just_ call it that. "Nobody goes there for the food."

"Some people might," she said. And god, she sounded so naïve. "When I walked in there today, there were girls there with their boyfriends. There was a family. It's not like I'm just gonna be serving men all the time."

He shook his head, frustrated with her utter dismissal of the facts. Most of the people who went to Hooters were men. Why? Because scantily-clad served women their food. And now Clarke wanted to be one of those women?

"I talked to one of the girls who works there," Clarke went on, sounding completely undeterred. "She said it's actually a really good company. They help out with tuition and stuff, and they have really strict policies, so if a customer crosses the line, he's out of there. No questions asked."

Yeah, that all sounded great in theory, but she should have known from experience that strict policies could fall by the wayside. "It's another job where you got hired because of the way you look, Clarke," he stated bluntly. "Are you really okay with that?"

"I didn't get hired because of the way I look," she insisted. "You don't have to have big boobs to work there. You have to be an _entertainer_. That's why they want me, because they think I can do that. That's the job title, not a waitress. They're looking for people who can interact with customers."

He shook his head, not sure if she was considering all that that interaction might entail. When he'd gone there, the Hooters girls had always been . . . flirtatious. And not just with young, good-looking guys like him. They'd been trained to flirt with everybody, young or old. It was all an act, but people bought it.

"And it's a _nation-wide_ company, Bellamy," she pressed on, "so they pretty much have to treat their girls well, otherwise they'd come under fire."

He dragged his hand through his hair, mind spinning. "I can't believe this," he grumbled, throwing that shirt into the living room, where it landed on the couch. "You know what's gonna happen, right? All your fans from Grounders are gonna find out you're working there, and they're gonna come in and harass you, just like they did at the club. They're gonna say stuff to you, and they're gonna try to grab at you, because you're not gonna be out of reach on a stage anymore."

"Bellamy, you are thinking of the worst case scenario here!" she said loudly. "And I told you, if somebody crosses the line, they're thrown out of the restaurant. I even asked the manager about that. She said the safety of the girls is a top priority."

He snorted. "Sounds a lot like Anya. How'd that work out for you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, frowning intensely. "What is this?" she spat. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

"Happy?" he shrieked. "That you're working at _Hooters_?"

"That I got a job. A job where I can probably make some really good tips. A job where I can be safe."

"No, it's no different down than Grounders, Clarke," he shot back, getting pissed now. "You're not selling food; you're selling yourself."

"I am not-" She threw her hands up in the air and yelled, "Are you _kidding_ me right now? It's _totally_ different than Grounders. I'm not taking my clothes off and putting on shows. I'm interacting with people, in a completely tame and harmless way."

 _Tame? Harmless?_ Did she really believe that crock of bullshit the manager had fed her?

"They have—they have this whole manual, Bellamy, that I'm gonna get tomorrow."

"Oh, a manual?" he taunted. "That makes it legit."

"God, why are you being such an ass right now?" she screeched. "You wanna talk about selling yourself? Back when I first met you, you would sleep with a woman twice your age just to try to get a modeling job."

He looked away, unable to deny that. Yeah, he'd slept with a few women who had connections. And none of those connections had amounted to much of anything at all.

"So don't be such a hypocrite," she growled, eyes ablaze with anger.

Yeah, it was hypocritical as hell; he was aware of that. But what was so bad about using his own mistakes to try to prevent some of hers? "I'm just trying to look out for you, Clarke," he said.

"No, you're—you're being judgmental, just like my dad!" she accused. "This is the kind of reaction I expected from him, not from you."

Bellamy stiffened, a bit unnerved by that thought, because he didn't particularly like Jake Griffin a whole lot. But fuck, they had a love for Clarke in common, and that wasn't such a bad thing. "Well, how the hell did you expect me to react?" he asked.

"I don't know, I thought you would support me and trust me," she said, sounding as if she were on the verge of tears now. "I mean, I'm not doing anything wrong."

"No, but there's a stereotype that goes along with that job, and you know it."

"So what?" she said. "There's a stereotype that goes along with every job."

"Why don't you just try something different?" he suggested. "Something that doesn't hinge on you being a hot girl with a hot body."

"What, like sitting in a cubicle all day?"

Now that was a personal shot. "You think I like doing that?" he roared. "I'm doing that for us, Clarke, so we have some way to get by."

"And that's why I got a job, so I can help with that," she said. "You don't have to do it alone, Bellamy. You don't have to be the one to take care of me. We can take care of each other. That's how it's supposed to be. That's how it's been."

It wasn't fair, though. He was older, and he'd lived in the city longer. Plus, he was her _boyfriend._ Maybe it was old-fashioned, but he wanted to be able to take care of her more than she felt like she had to take care of him. "Your dad doesn't think that's good enough," he pointed out. Her dad didn't think _he_ was good enough.

"My _dad_?" she echoed, making a face. "Who cares what he thinks?"

Bellamy gulped hard, wishing he didn't care, wishing he wasn't letting all that judgment get to him.

"God, are you really gonna let him mess with your head like this?" she shouted. "I'm your girlfriend. You should believe in me. You should believe that I know what I'm doing and I'm not gonna make the same mistakes I did before." As her eyes welled up with tears, she whimpered, "Don't you believe in me?"

He did. He did believe in her. He believed that she could do anything she set her mind to, so he wanted her to set her mind to something that was in her best interest. "Yes," he said.

"No, you don't."

"I do," he insisted.

"No, you don't, because if you did, then you wouldn't be so upset about this." She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears, but a few fell over.

"If I wasn't upset, then I'd be just like Finn," he pointed out. "Is that what you want, Clarke? You want me to be like Finn? You want me to just not care about you and spend my time fucking other girls?"

She stared at him in astonishment, and he felt like a complete jackass the moment the words left his mouth.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. He shouldn't have brought up something that had been very hurtful for her. "Let's just calm down and . . ."

Apparently, though, it was too late to calm down. Clarke grabbed her keys out of her purse and marched straight to the door.

"Clarke, wait!"

She didn't wait. She stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her, and he just stood there, feeling like a complete loser, feeling like she wasn't gonna want to talk to him for the rest of the night. And he couldn't blame her. She'd been excited about her new job, and he'd been an ass about it. He should have stayed calmer, should have tried to have a level-headed and mature conversation with her about it instead of just blowing up. But of course he hadn't done that. A good boyfriend would have done that.

Maybe that meant he just wasn't a very good boyfriend then.


	65. Chapter 65

_Chapter 65_

Clarke drove aimlessly, amazed that she'd actually gotten the hang of navigating traffic in this city. It would never _not_ be overwhelming, and she'd never be confident enough to drive as aggressively as everybody else did. But she could cruise all around that huge, hustling, bustling city, with hopes that it would clear her head.

Of course it wouldn't, though. There was nothing clear or relaxing about all these other cars, all these people, all this noise and all these smells. She put the hood up as she drove and turned off the radio, but that only made things worse, so she rolled the top back down and switched the stereo back on. Because without all the sounds, she thought of how upset Bellamy had sounded just a couple hours ago, and that just made her feel all the more anxious.

He texted her a few times. Whenever she stopped at a red light, she looked down at her phone and saw a new _Please just come home_ or _Where did you go?_ She finally texted back a quick _be home later_ and put her phone away.

Night fell, and the city became illuminated by all its lights and billboards. Traffic got thick, and she found herself spending more time sitting and waiting at red lights than she did actually driving anywhere. And when she sat and waited, she thought about Bellamy and how defeated he had seemed lately. Between her dad and this new job of his, it was like the world was trying to beat him down. All she'd been trying to do was help, by going out there and getting a job of her own. But apparently she'd only made things worse, because he'd been so angry about it. He'd said she was _selling herself._ But she had no intention of doing that. It was a restaurant, nothing more.

Storming out . . . probably hadn't been the most mature thing to do. She and Bellamy were a couple, and couples argued, but that was normal. She just had to sit down and talk it through with him, get him to understand that she'd be fine and he didn't have to worry about her. He always worried.

She knew she had to go back home, so she changed direction around 10:30 so she could get there.

While waiting at one particularly long red light for the cars in front of her to crawl forward, she looked over to her left and saw that there was some kind of club opening happening. Not unusual for a city that had so many clubs, more and more each day, it seemed. She wouldn't have even looked twice had there not been a huge sign out front advertising the promoter of this club opening: none other than Cage Wallace.

She glared at his name on the sign, feeling absolute fury in that moment. That son of a bitch had promised Finn, and her, by extension, a great life in New York City. But that wasn't what either one of them had gotten. In fact, if it wasn't for Bellamy, she would have left a long time ago. But at least she em _had/em_ Bellamy. All Finn had was his cousin. Finn was becoming a horrible man, a horrible person, and she hated him so much for not having more of backbone, for not resisting Cage's influence.

Making decisions in the moment, she pulled through the green light, then squeezed in between two taxis in the adjacent lane. She took a turn, looped back around the block, and returned to the club opening. Parking was scarce—almost non-existent—so she had to drive a couple more blocks down to find a meter. She dropped some loose change into the slot, flung her purse over her shoulder, and stomped down the sidewalk, bypassing the entire line of people hanging out front, waiting to be let in.

"Excuse me," she said, only being faux-polite as she pushed her way into the front of the line. She tried to just walk inside, but the doorman's arm shot outward to stop her.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," he said, "are you on the guest list?"

"Yes." She slipped past him, and he didn't bother to stop her from just going inside. Even though she wasn't on any list. Even though she wasn't at all dressed for a night out and clearly didn't belong there.

The building hadn't looked too big on the outside, but on the inside, it was pretty huge. There was an upper level balcony that wrapped all around, looking down on a very large dance floor that was swarming with people. A DJ was up on that balcony, surrounded by women, blasting EDM beats, and everyone Clarke saw had a drink in their hand. So the bar must have been pretty busy, too.

By pure chance, she located Cage, sprawled out on a couch in what looked like a VIP section. She recognized some of the other people with him, too, but they were hard to see. Because they all had half-naked women dancing on their laps. The girl on top of Cage was rolling her hips all over his crotch, but she still had a full corset on. Tucked in between her breasts were many dollar bills. Probably some fives and tens, maybe even some twenties. Cage was a big spender.

Clarke stepped around a few other lap-dances, praying to God it wasn't someone she knew—like Roma—giving one, and grabbed the girl on top of Cage, pulling her off.

"Hey!" she yelped, swatting Clarke's hands away.

"Leave," Clarke told her.

The girl looked at Cage and whined, "Baby?"

Clarke made a face. _Baby?_ Gross. Like they even knew each other.

"Clarke," Cage said, leering at her. "How'd you get in?"

"I walked in," she told him. "Great security, by the way."

He groaned in annoyance, handed his lap-dancer a ten, and said, "Come back later."

She smirked at him, glared at Clarke, and then strode off to find . . . the next guy, most likely. Just one after another.

"I'm afraid you're at the wrong party," Cage said, kicking his feet up on the table in front of him. "We've got plenty of strippers."

She ignored that jab and asked him, "Where's Finn?"

"With plenty of strippers." Grinning smugly, he took a drink. "Why? You want him back?"

She rolled her eyes. Yeah, right.

"Hate to break it to you, but he's not interested. He's scoring the best ass he's ever scored in his life," Cage informed her. "You really can't compare."

"Shut the fuck up," she snapped, so completely _over_ his attempts at putting her down.

"Ooh, feisty. She's feisty tonight." He licked his lips, and his eyes roamed up and down her body. "Maybe I'll let you dance for me after all."

"Ugh." She left him then, not about to put up with that. Being mocked and made fun of by Cage was one thing, but turning him on was just disgusting at another level.

She roamed the club, looking completely out of place in her jeans and casual shirt. Finn had to be there. There was no way the company would promote a club opening and he'd be anywhere else. Besides, he and Cage were attached at the hip, so where one was, the other one was sure to be close-by.

Her ears were splitting from all the obnoxious electronic music when, thankfully, she spotted someone she recognized. "Raven!" She squeezed through the crowd to the bar, where Raven was having a drink with that Shaw guy, her boyfriend.

"Clarke?" Raven eyed her curiously. "What're you doing here?"

"I wanna talk to Finn," she said loudly over the music. "Do you know where he is?"

Raven exchanged a quick glance with Shaw, then replied, "Uh, probably in one of the back rooms."

 _Well, that sounds shady,_ Clarke thought, but that wasn't going to stop her from marching back there and finding him. "Thanks," she said, leaving Raven and Shaw to their night.

"Clarke," Raven called after her.

She spun around.

"You probably don't wanna go back there."

No, she probably didn't. In fact, she was pretty sure she knew what she would find. But what the hell? It wouldn't come as a big surprise to find Finn hooking up with chicks. She'd already walked in on that before.

Ignoring Raven's warning, she slipped off towards the back rooms, which were behind the restrooms. There weren't many people mulling about back there, just a few guys who were counting their cash and a few girls who looked painfully drunk and willing. There was a dark, narrow hallway, with about three rooms on either side. All the doors were shut.

The music wasn't as loud back here, so Clarke could hear . . . all sorts of sounds. Lots of girls moaning loudly and over-exaggeratedly. At the end of the hallway, she heard someone shouting, "Take it! Take it!" and it sure as hell _sounded_ like Finn. So she slammed her hand against the door and yelled, "Finn!" No response, but she felt sure that he was in there. "Finish up!" she yelled. "I know it doesn't take you that long!"

While she waited, she had to deflect a guy who came out of the adjacent room and gave her an intrigued look. He tried to motion her into the room, but she just snapped, "Not interested," and he backed off.

It was only a minute or so later that the door to Finn's room opened, and out came not one, not two, but _three_ women. One blonde, one brunette, and one redhead. They were all dressed in the same corset the girl on top of Cage had been wearing. So they must have been strippers, too. None of them made eye contact with her as they brushed past. None of them said anything.

She wrinkled her nose when she walked into the room. It was rank and exactly what she pictured a back room at a club like this to look like. There were mirrors all around, and a big round bed, where Finn was sitting and pulling his pants up. "Look who came crawling back," he said.

"Oh, save it." She left the door open, not because she was worried that Finn would force anything on her, but just because it felt strange being alone with him.

"Did you get tired of Bellamy's dick?" he asked, scooting towards the edge of the bed. "Want a taste of mine again?"

He even _sounded_ like his cousin now. The old Finn would never have said something like that to her. "God, you're really campaigning for Low-life of the Year, aren't you?" she said, shaking her head in dismay.

"Nah, I'm just having fun." He stood up, stretched, and tossed something into a small trashcan. Probably a condom.

"Oh, that's great, Finn. That's great that you're having fun," she said sarcastically. "I'm _so happy_ that you can have fun while I'm dealing with so much crap, all because of you!"

He turned to face the mirror, checking his reflection, combing his hands through his hair. "You mean the video?"

"Yes!" She moved so that she was in the same mirror, so that he'd at least have to look at her reflection if he wouldn't even do her the decency of looking at her. "Why would send that out to everyone back home? Do you realize my own mother can barely even stand to talk to me on the phone right now? I'm supposed to go be the maid of honor in her wedding, and now everyone's gonna be gossiping about me and spreading rumors and-"

"Do I look like I care?" he interrupted, whirling around. "'cause I don't."

She glared at him and yelled, "You _should_ care! You know what it's been like for my family this past year! You know how hard things have been! And you just made it all worse. That video, bringing my dad to the club . . . I mean, why would you do that?"

He flapped his arms against his sides. "Why not? I don't owe you anything."

"But we had a deal," she argued. "I didn't tell anyone you cheated, so you weren't supposed to tell anyone about . . . my job."

He shrugged. "I don't care if they know I'm a cheater. Every guy cheats."

"Oh, _every_ guy?" That was such bullshit. Bellamy wouldn't cheat on her.

"Practically every guy," he said. "They don't even care what I did, 'cause they're too busy talking about what you've been doing. It's great."

She rolled her eyes, completely at a loss. She didn't even know what she was trying to accomplish here. She was just so _angry_ , and she wanted him to be bothered by what he'd done. Even if it was just for a second or two. "You were with me for over two years, Finn," she reminded him. "We came here together. And we _both_ screwed it up. Not just me, both of us. But why are you making everything worse? My dad is _so_ disappointed in me. He'll never look at me the same way again. And Bellamy . . ." She trailed off, not sure what Bellamy was feeling lately. Maybe some of it was disappointment, but it seemed like something else, too.

"Uh-oh," Finn said mockingly. "Trouble in paradise?"

Paradise wasn't exactly the right word for their lives, and whatever trouble they were encountering, she knew they could overcome it. But still, for the time being, it sucked. "He's making Bellamy feel like crap, too," she said.

"Oh, tell me more." Finn's eyes lit up, and a smile spread across his face. "You know, I _really_ care about how Bellamy feels. In fact, if there's anyone I care about, it's that guy."

"I don't expect you to care about him. I just hoped that maybe, deep down inside, there was at least a little piece of you that still cared about me." She swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "But apparently not. You wanna ruin my life." At least she could rest assured that, after this, there was really nothing more he could do. He had no other ammunition against her, and he'd get bored and move on soon enough.

"Is that what I'm doing? One phone call with your dad, one video, and your life is _ruined_?" He laughed insensitively. "You gotta get a better life, Clarke."

Her life was fine. That wasn't the point.

"Dump Bellamy, move back home, work for daddy until you marry a rich farmer and pump out a couple of kids," Finn suggested. "Simple."

No, it wasn't simple. It wasn't simple at all.

"See, you don't got it so bad," he said, pointing an angry finger at her. "You act like you do, but you don't. You've got other stuff to fall back on, but _my_ parents?" He grunted. "They can't do anything for me."

She looked down at her feet for a moment, recognizing the truth in that. His parents were a lot more comparable to Bellamy's mom than they were to her dad.

"So I'm stuck here," he declared, and it sounded like he'd accepted that a long time ago. "And if I'm stuck, I might as well enjoy myself."

She looked around that room, wondering how many girls he'd brought in there already tonight. Even if it was just the three . . . it was _three_ girls, three women he didn't even know. He wouldn't fall in love again at this rate. He'd grow up to be Cage, wandering around from one nameless stripper or escort to the next. And maybe he was okay with that. Maybe he was . . . resigned.

"I don't even know you anymore," she said sadly, turning and walking out of the room. She had to get out of there. Not just out of that room, but out of that whole club. She wanted to go home, even though her apartment wasn't much of a home. She wanted to go be with Bellamy and apologize for taking the job at Hooters without talking to him about it first. And she wanted him to apologize for getting so angry about it. They could talk it through, and they could come to a decision _together_ about whether or not it was the right thing for her to do. She didn't have to spend any more time driving aimlessly around this city, being mad at him. She didn't want to be mad at him, and she didn't want him to be mad at her. She just wanted to wrap herself up in his arms and believe that everything was going to be alright, because when he held her, she really believed it would be.

On her way out, she noticed Raven shooting her a concerned look, but she just walked right past. And Cage's girl was back on top of him, kissing his neck now. His eyes were half-closed in pleasure, but he still spotted her and called tauntingly, "Leaving so soon?" But she just ignored him and left.

Her car was parked so damn far away that she almost couldn't even remember where it was at. Several blocks down. Great. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and walked determinedly, ready to get back home. It wasn't far. Just a five minute drive, maybe. She could be back with Bellamy in five minutes. And they could talk and figure things out. And then she'd feel better.

"Hey, I know you."

She stopped when she heard someone say that, because she sensed whoever it was was talking to her.

"You're that girl, right? The one from that club."

Oh, yeah, he was _definitely_ talking to her. She didn't say anything in response and just resumed walking, realizing she probably shouldn't have even stopped in the first place.

A guy wearing an oversized Giants jersey an baggy jeans scampered in front of her, blocking her progress. "Bro, come here," he said, motioning somebody else over. "It's her."

"Get out of my way," she told him, trying to step around him. But he just side-stepped, too, preventing her from doing that.

Another guy, shorter but beefier, came up beside her, moving in a little too close for comfort. "Ah, that's her, alright," he said, grinning. "How much you charge for a lap dance?"

"I don't work there anymore," she told them. "Now move." She pushed in between them and kept walking, feeling a little . . . creeped out now. Sure, there were a lot of people up the street at the club, but there were fewer people down this way, and most of them were busy doing their own thing. Maybe she should duck into a restaurant or something, because there were too many dark, narrow spaces in between buildings here that one of them could just pull her into.

Feeling nervous as they continued along behind her, she unzipped her purse, fumbling around inside, trying to find her keys.

"You got a fine ass, bitch!" one of them called, whistling suggestively. "Why don't you let me rail on it?"

 _Oh, gross,_ she thought, so fed up with this shit. Why did some guys think it was okay to say stuff like that?

"You wanna suck my cock?" the other one invited. As though anything about the proposition would actually _be_ inviting. "I got a nice cock here for you."

"Leave me alone!" she yelled, taking stock of her situation. Her car was just a couple of blocks up ahead. All she had to do was get to it, get in, and get home. These two losers were just out and about strolling. It wasn't like they'd follow her.

Her feet never stopped moving until she heard one of them complain, "Damn, why you gotta be such a cunt?"

She froze, so completely _startled_ by that word that she just couldn't keep moving. A _cunt?_ She'd been called a lot of things at Grounders, but that was really the most degrading thing ever. She couldn't imagine being called anything worse.

Something inside her just snapped in that moment, and she couldn't take it anymore. She'd already taken enough of it, _ignored_ enough of it. But she was so sick and tired of guys thinking they could say whatever they wanted to her, just because she was _that_ girl from _that_ club. She wasn't even that girl anymore, the Girl Next Door. She was . . . she was just Clarke. And _Clarke_ was done putting up with their shit.

"What the hell?" she screamed, spinning back around. She stormed straight up to them, heated and fuming. "What do you think gives you the right to call me that, huh?"

The two men just exchanged looks with each other and chuckled.

"You don't know me, you don't know _anything_ about me," she said, her hands shooting outward to shove the shoulder of the guy she was pretty sure had called her that awful word. "So _back_ the fuck off and _leave me alone_!" She turned to walk away, but one of them grabbed her arm and pulled her back this time. "Let go!" she yelled, trying to yank her arm free. But his grip was tight, and he didn't let go. Before she could cry for help, his hands were everywhere, one over her mouth to prevent her from screaming, the other around her midsection so he could drag her backwards. She tried to scream, but the sound was muffled, and she struggled against him, but he was too strong for her.

Her heart pounded frantically as he hauled her into a narrow alley, where it was completely dark and they were completely alone, out of sight of anyone who might have been able to help. He brought her behind a huge dumpster, and his friend joined them, standing in front of her while she continued to squirm and struggle and try to break free of her attacker's hold. Her purse went flying, and with it went her keys and her pepper spray and anything else she may have been able to use as a weapon.

"Get her pants off," the guy holding her said. His mouth was so close to her ear. The other one tried to reach for her jeans, but she kicked at his legs and his hands, and he couldn't seem to get to her.

"I'll do it myself," the one holding her decided, and his hand ventured down to unbutton her jeans.

 _No!_ her mind blared. No, this wasn't happening. She squeezed her eyes shut and continued struggling, trying to make this so hard on them that they would give up. The hand clamped over her mouth loosened a bit, and she seized the opportunity to bite down hard on it.

"Ah!' the man screamed, instinctively pulling it away.

" _Help_!" she screamed as loudly as she could.

"Shut up!" the guy in front of her snapped, and he took a swing at her. Her head flung to the side.

She still couldn't move very well, but she had to get free. So she shot one leg out, aiming directly for his crotch, and that was exactly where she kicked him. That must have hurt a hell of a lot more than his punch had, because he doubled over and stumbled backward, grimacing and howling in pain.

Somehow, she managed to think clearly enough to remember that the throat was another vulnerable area. So she raised her arm and jutted her elbow back, jamming it into the other guy's throat. He finally let go of her, and she tried to run. But the guy she'd kneed lunged for her and grabbed her by the waist, practically tackling her on the hard pavement.

"No, stop!" she cried, scrambling, trying to slither out from under his heavy weight. "Ah! Get off me! Get off!" She could feel his erection pressing into her. He was going to rape her, no doubt about it. They both were. But she couldn't let that happen.

Reaching out, she managed to find an empty bottle lying by the dumpster. It wasn't heavy, but it still startled him she reached back and smashed it against the side of his face. Glass went everywhere, mostly all over him, and he yelled, "Ah, my eye!" as she crawled out from underneath him. She'd barely gotten to her feet when the other one reached out and grabbed her wrist, once again trying to pull her back. She curled her hand into a fist and swung at him, hitting him squarely in the nose.

"Fuck!" he swore, letting go of her.

Free of both of them, she just ran. As fast as she could. Then faster.

"Get back here!"

Crying, gasping, she spilled out of that alley and back onto the sidewalk, back where there were lights and other people. She didn't stop at her car because she didn't have her keys. They were lying there along with her whole purse in that alley. With _them_.

So she just kept running.

...

Bellamy sat at the counter, one hand on his forehead, eyes closed. He didn't have the TV on and only had the living room lamp on dim. It was dark and quiet in that apartment. Which seemed fitting.

A knock on the door disrupted the silence, but he didn't even bother to get up and answer it. Obviously Clarke wouldn't knock, and he really didn't feel like talking to anyone else right now. For hours, ever since she'd left, he'd sat there, thinking about what he might say to her when she got back, how he might convince her to go look for another job without offending her in the process.

The knocking continued and didn't seem to be letting up. Unfortunately for him, the door was unlocked, so it opened, and in came the last person he wanted to talk to: Clarke's dad.

"Hello?" he called. He spotted Bellamy just sitting there and said, "Oh, Bellamy. You are home."

Yeah, he was. Home alone. He didn't even know where Clarke was right now. Maybe she'd decided to go stay in a hotel for the night, or maybe she'd gone over to Niylah's or Murphy and Emori's. Did she even know where they lived, though? He would have felt better if Harper still lived here, because then he could have assumed she'd gone over to her place.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Jake asked, shutting the door.

The entire last week had been a pretty bad time. This was no different. "It's late," he mumbled, glancing at the microwave clock. It was almost 11:00 now. If Clarke wasn't home in half an hour, he was gonna go drive around and look for her.

"It is late," Jake agreed. "Sorry. It's just that my plane leaves tomorrow afternoon, but Clarke and I . . ." He trailed off, exhaled heavily, and shook his head. "She wasn't very happy with me today. I felt like I needed to see her, talk to her some more before I go." He looked down the hallway and into the living room and asked, "Is she here?"

 _Crap,_ Bellamy thought. He really didn't want this guy knowing he had no clue where Clarke was. "No," he answered simply.

Jake frowned. "Well, where is she?"

 _Don't know,_ he thought sadly. He'd called his friends, but none of them had answered. So either she was with them, or they were all just busy tonight and she was doing her own thing. "She left a while ago," he said, purposefully avoiding answering the question. "We had an argument."

"Oh, really?" Jake . . . didn't really sound all that surprised. "About what?"

Bellamy shifted uncomfortably, not about to rehash it.

"Sorry," Jake apologized, "none of my business."

It really wasn't, was it? Yet knowing Jake, he'd somehow find a way to make it his business, just like he'd done with every other aspect of their lives since he'd shown up there.

"Well, arguments happen, you know, in any relationship," the older man went on. "Sometimes you get past them, sometimes you don't."

 _Comforting,_ Bellamy thought sarcastically.

"I'm not saying the two of you won't, of course."

"Of course." He wasn't an idiot, though. That was exactly what Jake was saying. And the frustrating part was, Bellamy couldn't even just hate the guy. People like Roan or McCreary or the man who had raped his mother . . . he could hate all of them. Easy. But this was Clarke's _dad_. He wasn't being evil; he was just . . . concerned about her. Just like Bellamy was.

Perhaps it was _because_ of that mutual concern that he revealed to him, "She got a job."

"She did?" Jake's eyebrows shot upward. _That_ seemed to surprise him. "Where?"

Bellamy didn't even want to say it—part of him didn't even want Jake to know. But when he cast a glance over at the couch, where her Hooters tank top still lay, Jake followed his gaze. Walking over there, he picked up the shirt and said, "Oh. I see." He didn't sound thrilled about the prospect, either.

"I told her she shouldn't work there," Bellamy said, hoping the guy would realize that he really was doing his best to look out for her. "It's not that much better than Grounders."

"Well . . . it is," Jake said, setting the shirt back down on the arm of the couch. "But I agree, it's still not the right place for her. She's already been way too sexualized in this town."

 _Sexualized._ Yeah. That was the right word for it.

"So did you know she was thinking about working there?"

"No, she just went in and interviewed. And then she sprang it on me." If he'd known, he would have tried to talk her out of it, and maybe it would have worked. But money was tight, so now that she had a money-making opportunity laid out in front of her, it was gonna be hard to get her to change her mind. "I didn't . . . I didn't mean to upset her," he said, slowly turning around on the stool. God, he felt like crap.

"It's good that you were honest with her, Bellamy," Jake told him. "Clarke needs to know that this isn't the right job for her."

He got to his feet, pacing into the living room to go pick up the shirt himself. "I don't get to tell her what to do with her life, though. It's up to her." He brought it back into the kitchen, laid it out on the counter, and looked down at the logo. Clarke would look hot in it. Which was pretty much the point. She could talk about how Hooters hired entertainers and not waitresses all she wanted to, but ultimately, they wanted girls who looked a certain way. And Clarke looked that way.

"Believe me, I understand how frustrating it can be," Jake empathized, shuffling into the kitchen with him, "standing back, watching her make choices when you know they're not the right ones."

He didn't _know,_ though. That was the thing. He just worried. He just worried what would happen to her if she chose something wrong. And she didn't worry enough about herself sometimes. "I think she should be a singer," he blurted, wondering if it'd be too pathetic to beg Jake for enough money to pay for some time for her in a recording studio. She didn't want to spend her own money on that, but maybe she'd be willing to spend his. "Or an artist," he said, thinking back on all those awesome drawings she'd given him for Christmas. "Something."

Jake smiled proudly and said, "She's very talented. Although . . ." His smile slowly fell. "Both of those talents are hard to make a career out of."

 _Just like acting,_ he thought somberly. He was living proof of how dreams didn't always become a reality. "Well, if you had your way, she'd go work in an office for you," he said. "Isn't that right?"

"That's right," Jake confirmed without hesitation. "Look, Bellamy, I know an office job might not be your cup of tea, but it'd be a good fit for Clarke, at least while she's . . . figuring herself out."

He grunted, trying to picture Clarke in an office, stuck sitting at a computer all day, watching the hands of the clock move forward ever so slowly. He didn't want that for her. "And you don't think she can figure herself out here?" he asked challengingly.

This time, Jake paused a moment, but when he did answer . . . it was an honest response. "I really don't," he said sadly. "A reputation can be a difficult thing to overcome. I would know. I spent over a year overcoming mine."

Bellamy thought of his mom, of how she'd never really overcome the labels people had put on her. And she probably never would. Even when she was sober, people still thought of her as that alcoholic, drug-addicted woman who slept with any man if he paid her enough.

"Once people see you a certain way and think certain things about you, that's what you become," Jake went on. "So if Clarke thinks it'll be easy to just stop being the girl she was at that club, then she's in for a rude awakening."

Bellamy's stomach clenched at the thought of any more 'rude awakenings' coming her way. "Yeah, but thanks to Finn's video, she'd have that reputation anywhere," he pointed out. "At least New York's big enough that she can try to blend back in."

"Sure," Jake said. "And then get lost in the crowd."

Bellamy made a face and argued, "She's not lost." Just because she wasn't the same daughter he remembered, the same girl from Kansas, she was still the same person. A little more world-weary, a little less jaded, but still . . . she was Clarke Griffin.

"It's admirable how much you care about her," Jake said. "Really, it is."

For a second, Bellamy was going to take that as a compliment. But he sensed there was more to it than that. "But you still don't think it's enough," he inferred. "You still don't think _I'm_ enough."

Jake came to the counter, looked down at the Hooters shirt for a moment, then slowly said, "I think you've done the best you can. I think you've tried to look out for her the best way you know how."

 _But it's not enough,_ Bellamy thought on a loop. _I'm not enough._

"And it's a good thing she had you," Jake said. "If you hadn't been with her this whole time, who knows what would have happened. But even with you cast in the role of knight and shining armor . . . we both know there's a lot you haven't been able to protect her from."

Bellamy's mind raced with everything she'd gone through, everything he'd tried to help her through, but . . . maybe sometimes he'd done more harm than good. Like with Roan. She never would have done anything with Roan had she not been trying to look out for him.

"I can protect her," Jake stated confidently. "If she left this place and came home with me, I could help her get her life back on track. I could give her a job, help her pay for college . . . I could help her start over." He smiled, his eyes full of some heartfelt emotion and actual tears. "I could help my little girl."

 _So could I,_ Bellamy thought, staring at the other man intently, but he didn't say those words. Because he was mostly just telling himself, not Jake. Jake wouldn't believe him.

"That's all I want," Clarke's father said softly, turning the Hooters shirt over so the logo was no longer visible. "I wanna keep her safe."

...

Feeling like she could barely breathe, Clarke dashed across the street. A loud car horn honked as she barely managed to cut in front of it. She tripped over her feet and fell as she raced into the parking lot outside her apartment complex. Immediately, she knew she'd scraped her knees, and it hurt, but she scrambled right back up to her feet and kept running. She cast one last frantic glance back over her shoulder, just to make sure nobody was following her. And nobody was.

Somebody was coming out of the building right as she was on her way in. It was a man, and he held the door open for her, but she just shoved right past him and spilled inside. Every step was a stagger, a stumble, and at first she was stumbling in the direction of the elevator. But there were two guys standing there, waiting for it to come down. Both of them looked at her, probably just because they were wondering what the hell was wrong with her. But she didn't want them looking at her, so she wasn't about to hop in a cramped elevator with them. She took the stairs instead, but each step made her feel like she was going in slow motion.

She accidentally collided with a girl on her way up to the third floor, and she couldn't say sorry or anything like that. All she could do was sort of . . . whimper. And keep going.

...

Bellamy clenched his jaw and looked down at his feet. Even though Jake was there, the silence was back now, too. Neither one of them was saying much of anything. Bellamy sort of felt like . . . like he didn't know what to say. He wasn't upset with Clarke's dad for wanting to keep her safe. He just . . . he couldn't bear the thought of not being with her. Maybe that made him selfish as hell.

"Where is she right now?" Jake finally asked him. "I'd like to see her."

"I don't . . ." He stopped short of admitting that he didn't know. "She'll be home soon," he said, hoping that she'd meant that when she texted it to him. If _soon_ turned out to be several hours from now, it was gonna be one hell of a long night.

"Is it okay if I stay here and wait for her?" Jake inquired.

Bellamy shifted uncomfortably.

"Please," Jake pleaded. "I need to see her."

He opened his mouth, trying to formulate a response, but no words came out. And his answer, whatever it was going to be, didn't really matter. Not when that door flew open, revealing Clarke in the doorway.

Her dad whirled around, but Bellamy just stood there like a statue. Something wasn't right.

"Dad?" Clarke squeaked out. And then she ran forward, practically falling against her father, into his arms. And she cried. Loud, agonized sobbing, unlike anything Bellamy had ever heard before.

"What's wrong?" he asked, moving towards her, his heart pounding.

Clarke kept crying, and her dad soothed her and held her in his arms, slowly sitting down on the floor with her. "Shh," he whispered, scooping her up, practically into his lap. She clung to him and pressed her face into his shoulder, and her whole body shook and shuddered.

"Clarke . . ." Bellamy stood over them, noticing the bloodied scrapes on her knees. And there was a cut on the side of her head. And her bottom lip looked swollen.

 _No._ His mind started to spin out of control as he gazed down at her in horror, helpless while her father comforted her. _Please, no._


	66. Chapter 66

_Chapter 66_

It hadn't been easy to piece together what Clarke had been through, mostly because it'd been hard to make out much of what she'd been saying through her tears. But at the same time . . . it was obvious. Bellamy knew it before she even said it. He assumed Jake knew, too.

Her dad was a lot calmer about the whole thing than he was. Bellamy's initial reaction was to feel sick, but her dad kept it together for her, calmed her down, and explained to her that they had to go to the police. At first, she resisted the idea and said that she didn't want to tell strangers about it. But he explained that the only way these guys would get caught was if she told the authorities, and the sooner she told them, the better.

So they piled into Bellamy's car and went. Bellamy sat in the back seat with Clarke, holding her, trying to do anything he could to comfort her. He wasn't sure whether he was touching her too much or not enough right now. He held her hand and rubbed her back and arms, and she didn't object to or flinch at his touch.

The police station was busy when they got there, so even though they were ushered back to a private room almost immediately, they still had to wait several minutes for an officer to come in. He was an older man, and he started off by telling Clarke how sorry he was that this had happened to her. But he promised that they were going to do their best to make sure justice was served.

Bellamy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd gone to the police about Roan, and they hadn't been willing to do jack shit. Hopefully this would be different.

The officer sat across from them at a long table. Bellamy sat next to Clarke, still holding her hand, and her father sat on the other side of her. Once the questions started, though . . . all either one of them could do was sit. They couldn't answer them for her. She had to do that all on her own.

"So you left the club," the officer recapped. "Then what?"

Clarke shifted around in her chair. "I told you, I was attacked."

 _Attacked,_ Bellamy registered. This was new. And horrible. Roan had coerced and pressured her into doing things she hadn't wanted to do, and McCreary had attempted to take advantage of her. But these two strangers had tried to _force_ themselves on her, which was a whole different level of terrifying.

"I know it's not easy, but I need you to be more specific," the officer told her.

Logically, Bellamy knew they had to get as much information as possible from her right now, but . . . fuck, his heart broke for her. If she was going to be specific, she had to think about it. In detail.

"There were two guys," she said. "I didn't recognize either one of 'em. But they knew me from . . ." She trailed off momentarily, then quietly mumbled, "The place I used to work."

"And what place is that?" the officer questioned.

 _Oh, here we go,_ Bellamy thought. This was either going to be the moment where this guy decided Clarke was just a whore or the moment where he kept doing his job.

"Grounders," she answered finally. "I was . . . I danced there." She let out a shuddering exhale and squeezed Bellamy's hand a bit tighter as she went on. "They got in front of me, and I told them to get out of my way. I think one of them said something about a lap dance. I don't . . . I don't remember, exactly." She cringed, shaking her head. "But I kept walking to my car, and they kept walking behind me. And they started saying some really gross stuff."

"What'd they say?"

"Just . . . exactly what you would expect."

 _Things she's heard way too much since she's been here,_ Bellamy thought bitterly, wincing.

"They were . . . it felt like they were harassing me," she said. "And I just snapped when they called me . . . they called me a cunt and I—I just got really mad and I . . . I stopped and I went back to them and screamed at them and shoved them and-"

"So you put your hands on them first?" the officer cut in.

"Yeah, but . . . they deserved it."

"Excuse me, officer," Jake interrupted, "but I don't really like the tone of that question. My daughter's the victim here, not the perpetrator."

"Of course," the officer said. "I just want to make sure we're getting the full story."

"Well, the full story is that they dragged me off into an alley after that," Clarke said. "And I tried to scream and I tried to fight back, but . . . I couldn't scream, and they were stronger than me."

Bellamy's blood felt like it was boiling as he pictured everything in his mind. God, she must have felt so scared. _So_ scared.

"And you believe they intended to rape you?" the officer asked her.

She shivered and answered, "I _know_ they did. They were trying to take my clothes off."

Bellamy shut his eyes, grimacing inwardly.

"And it looks like you were hit," the officer noted.

"Yeah, one of them . . ." She touched her lip, which he'd noticed had a small cut on it in addition to being swollen. "One of them hit me."

Bellamy's free hand clenched into a fist.

"How did you get away?"

"I just struggled and kicked and . . ." She inhaled shakily again. "One of them got on top of me, so I grabbed a bottle and smashed it against his face."

 _On top of her?_ Bellamy thought, feeling sick again. She'd had to feel one of them on top of her body?

"Is that how you got that cut?" the officer inquired, motioning to her forehead.

She nodded, touching that injury, too. Her dad has washed her cuts and scrapes for her before they'd come here, and they were covered with Band-Aids now. "And then the other one grabbed my arm again," she said, "but I . . ." She looked over at Bellamy as she said, "I hit him."

He thought back to when he'd taught her how to throw a punch. It was a good thing she'd asked him for help with that, but still . . . he'd never wanted for her to actually have to do it.

"And then I just ran home," she finished up tearfully.

The officer peered at her curiously. "You didn't stop for help?"

"No. I didn't . . . I didn't know what to do," she sputtered. "I just wanted to get away from them. I should've told someone or called the cops sooner, but . . ."

"You didn't make any mistakes, Clarke," Jake quickly jumped in to assure her. "You saved yourself. Nobody blames you."

 _They'll try to make her blame herself,_ Bellamy feared. His mom had called the cops on several guys who had been too rough with her over the years, and nothing had ever been done about it. All that happened was . . . victim-shaming.

"And you said this all happened on 5th and Gram?" the officer asked for clarification.

"I—I think so." She wrinkled her face, as if she were unsure. "It was just a couple blocks down from whatever new club was opening tonight."

"And this happened at 10:30?"

"Maybe a little after." She started to tense up. "I don't know. I'm not sure."

Bellamy linked his fingers with hers, in what he hoped was a silent reassurance that she was doing fine.

"She needs a break," Jake said.

"Alright," the officer agreed. "Thank you for all the information, Clarke." He pushed his chair back, got up, and left the room. Clarke breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone.

"I'm gonna go talk to them a little more, try to figure out where we go from here," her father told her. "Are you okay in here?"

She nodded, and he gave her back a supportive pat before he got up and left the room, too.

Bellamy wasn't sure what to say when it was just the two of them. Did he tell her she'd done a good job handling all the questions? Did he apologize for once again not being able to protect her? Did he let her know how _horrified_ this whole thing made him feel? Did he dare allow himself to cry?

"I got my run in for the day," she blurted suddenly.

He frowned, not quite sure what to make of that. Yeah, she had run. For safety, not for exercise.

"Sorry, that's a . . . bad joke," she said quietly. "But I did what you showed me how to do. I defended myself."

As proud as he was of her for that . . . it didn't make him feel any better. He just felt like he'd let her down. "I should've been there," he said, letting _all_ the self-loathing just sink on in.

"No," she said, turning to face him a bit. "It's not your fault."

Oh, it was, though. At least somewhat. Her father had been right all along. He wasn't good enough. He hadn't been good enough tonight.

"Sorry I just went straight to my dad and not to you," she said, as if that were something she even needed to explain or apologize for. "It's just, when I saw him there . . . sometimes a girl just needs her dad, you know?"

"Clarke, you don't . . ." He couldn't have this, couldn't have her sitting there feeling bad about what she'd done when she hadn't done anything wrong. "You don't have to feel sorry for anything."

"I just didn't handle this well," she said. "I should've just ignored them. I shouldn't have let them get to me. I probably riled them up."

This sounded _way_ too familiar, too much like how his mom used to make excuses for people who didn't deserve any. "No, you didn't do anything wrong," he said, angling his whole body towards hers. "Don't for one second think you did anything wrong here."

She stared at him with wide, tearful eyes, thought about that for a moment, and then slowly nodded. "You're right," she said. "At least it wasn't worse."

That wasn't the first time he'd heard her say that lately, and . . . it was kind of disturbing. This was by far the _worst_ thing that had ever happened to her. She didn't have to just get over it and move on. She deserved to feel . . . whatever she was feeling. "Clarke . . ." He didn't get the chance to say anything more, to tell her that she didn't have to downplay the severity of this for any reason whatsoever, because the door to the room opened again, and back in came her father. He had an expression on his face that Bellamy couldn't quite decipher.

"What?" Clarke asked him.

He stood beside the table and folded his arms over his chest. "They want you to provide a physical description of your attackers," he told her. "There's a . . . a sketch artist."

Bellamy's whole stomach just sank. His shoulders slumped, and he exhaled heavily.

"I have to do that?" Clarke squeaked out. "Right now?"

"Well, it increases the likelihood that they'll be caught," her father said, still somehow maintaining a calm tone despite all of this. "And the sooner the better." He sat back down beside her and carefully put one hand on her lap. "I'll be with you the whole time," he reminded her. "You're not doing this alone."

Bellamy swallowed the lump in his throat. She wouldn't have been alone no matter what, but he had to admit, Jake was good in a crisis. He was probably helping her out a lot by being here.

Clarke's bottom lip quivered, but she indicated her agreement by nodding.

"Alright," her father said. "Bellamy, you should take a breather."

A _breather?_ Yeah, he probably needed one, but he wasn't going to leave Clarke's side right now, either. "No, I'm fine," he insisted.

"Bellamy . . ." Clarke looked him right in the eye and softly said, "He's right."

Bellamy frowned, not understanding.

"I don't want you to be picturing these guys, too," she said. "It'll just make you too upset."

He stared at her in astonishment, hating that she felt like she had to worry about him right now when really, she was the only person who mattered. He could fend for himself.

Unfortunately, he feared he might make things even harder on her and get in the way by not doing as she requested. So while she and her father went somewhere else to sit down with the sketch artist, he was left to roam the front of the police station. It was busy and noisy. Phones rang off the hook, and in certain parts of the station, he could hear officers coming over the radio, relaying the details of the situations they were dealing with. Domestic abuse. Car accident. Possible shooting. The list went on and on.

Even though he could have sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs and waited, Bellamy decided to pace. It made him feel like he was doing something, even though he wasn't. He wasn't sure how much time had passed when the same officer who had questioned Clarke tonight approached him and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "can I ask you a few questions?"

"About what?" He hadn't been there, so he didn't have any answers. Because he hadn't . . . been there.

"Just some basic information I'd like to have," the officer replied. "Clarke's your girlfriend, right?"

"Right."

"And how long was she working at the Grounders establishment?"

Bellamy narrowed his eyes suspiciously and made his response a vague one. "A couple months."

"Can you be more specific?"

He sighed, relenting to the truth. "Like eight months."

"Eight months," the officer repeated. "And in that time, did she ever engage in any . . . sexual conduct with the patrons?"

"What?" he shrieked, about to lose his shit. "What kind of question is that?"

"I'm just trying to-"

"No, I _know_ what you're trying to do!" he roared. "You're trying to make her out to be something she's not. She almost got raped tonight, and you wanna it seem like she was asking for it. But she wasn't fucking asking for anything! She was just tryin' to walk to her car."

The officer held his hands up defensively and said, "I'm not insinuating-"

"Yes, you are!"

"I just want to know her history, that's all."

"Well, her history is that she's a girl who danced at a strip club. That's it." He wasn't telling him about Roan, because . . . that didn't have anything to do with this. Besides, she'd been a victim there, too. "So leave her alone and do your fucking job," he suggested. If anyone tried to turn this around on Clarke and tried to cast doubt on her integrity, he wouldn't hesitate to lay into them. Cop or not.

Thankfully, the officer left him alone after that, but the questions had already done their damage, and the rage was there. He paced faster, angrier, and ended up shouting, "Dammit!" as he punched his hand into the wall. It was a solid wall, though, concrete and not plaster. So all he ended up doing was hurting his knuckles and having to pop a few of them back into place.

His behavior was obviously starting to draw attention, and eventually a female officer—god, it would have been nice to have a female officer question Clarke—came up to him and advised, "Why don't you have a seat?"

"No, I wanna—I wanna go be with Clarke," he decided, walking right past her, heading down a wide hallway in the direction he'd seen her and her dad go.

"Sir . . ." the woman followed after him.

"She needs me." He stopped when he heard crying from inside one of the rooms. Had to be Clarke. He started to reach for the door handle.

"Sir, you can't go in there," the officer said, sliding in between him and the door.

"Clarke!" he shouted, reaching around the woman to pound on the door. The crying almost instantly ceased.

"Just a minute," the cop said, slipping into the room. Bellamy couldn't see much of anything, except that Clarke and her dad were sitting on one side of a desk, somebody else on the other.

The woman shut the door, and he was left to wait for what felt like an eternity. Probably wasn't much more than a minute. Finally, she came back out and said, "Okay, go in."

He stepped past her and let himself into the room, his eyes going straight to Clarke. Her face was red and slightly puffy. She didn't look up at him.

"How's it going?" he asked, and shit, that sounded like a stupid question.

"See for yourself," she said, motioning to the drawings on the table. Two of them.

He peered down at both sketches, automatically hating both those men. Strangers. People he may have seen at the club, maybe even guys he'd served at the bar, but he didn't recognize them. After everything Clarke had been through, it wasn't Roan or McCreary who had inflicted this trauma on her. It was just two random men.

"That's them?" he said, fighting the urge to rip both images to shreds.

"Pretty close," she said, wiping one tear away. She turned to her father and whimpered, "Dad, I just wanna go home. Can I go home now?"

Jake exchanged a look first with Bellamy, then the sketch artist. And then he nodded, put his arm around her, and hugged her against his side.

Bellamy sat in the back seat with Clarke once again on the way home, and Jake drove. It took him longer than it would have taken Bellamy, since he wasn't used to the traffic. Clarke didn't look out the window once, and he understood why when they passed 5th and Gram. There were a couple police vehicles there, but . . . it didn't seem like enough.

When they finally got back to their apartment and walked inside, she asked, "What time is it?"

"Late," he said, putting his hand on the small of her back, relieved that she wasn't afraid to have him touch her. "You wanna try to get some sleep?"

"I wanna shower," she said, heading straight down the hall and into the bathroom. She shut the door, and almost immediately he heard the water start to run.

His mom used to shower for nearly an hour after she'd finished up with . . . whomever she'd been with. He remembered seeing her come out with blood caked on her arms and legs because she'd scrubbed so hard.

"I think I'll stay here tonight," Jake decided. "I can sleep on the couch."

That couch was way too small for him, but it'd have to do, Bellamy supposed. "Yeah," he said, "that's . . . that's a good idea." Like Clarke had said, sometimes girls just needed their dads. In the wake of everything that had happened, having the man who had raised her here probably came as a nice comfort. "Do you think she's hungry," he asked, "or . . ." He wandered into the kitchen, opened the breadbox, and then quickly shut it again. "I don't know what to do for her," he admitted.

"Just try to help her rest," Jake suggested. "She's been through a lot."

 _Yeah, she has,_ Bellamy thought somberly, his heart sinking. Tonight was the worst, no doubt, but . . . even without tonight, Clarke had been through too much.

While Jake got situated out on the couch, Bellamy went into the bedroom, turned on the light, and unmade the bed. He arranged the pillows just the way she liked them and pulled some clothes out of the dresser for her to sleep in. Then he sat on the bed and just waited, waited for her to get out of that shower.

Thankfully, she wasn't in there as long as his mom used to be. It was a normal, fifteen-minute shower for her, and when she came into the bedroom, she didn't look like she'd scrubbed her skin raw or anything like that.

"Here you go," he said, standing up and crossing the room so he could hand her one of his t-shirts.

"Thanks," she said, taking it from him. She closed the bedroom door, unhooked her towel, and let it fall to the floor. For some reason, he looked away from her naked body, feeling like he shouldn't . . . he just shouldn't look right now. But she didn't seem to think anything of it as she pulled on the overly-large shirt. She ended up grabbing some underwear out of the drawer and putting those on, too. "I'm tired," she then said.

"You should lay down." He motioned to the bed and held up the covers for her to get underneath them.

She lay down on the bed, curled up on her side, and he pulled the blankets up over her, covering her. Then he knelt down next to her, gently grazed his thumb against her head, right where she'd been cut, and just gazed at her sadly. God, if he'd just been with her tonight, he could have stopped this.

"It's okay, Bellamy," she said softly, managing a small, reassuring smile. "I'll be okay."

She sounded so sure, and he wondered if that was because she'd gotten so used to stuff like this happening. Maybe she felt like she could bounce back from this because she'd already bounced back from so much already. "I'm so sorry," he managed to say, but his own voice was _cloaked_ in guilt, regret. His lips trembled with every word. "I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said. "I should've gone after you when you left. I shouldn't have let you be out there alone."

"Bellamy . . ." She reached out and touched his cheek with her soft fingertips. "Do you know why I just kept running and didn't stop tonight?"

He lowered his head, sensing that she was about to say something to try to make _him_ feel better.

"Because I just thought . . . if I get to you, then everything will be alright," she whispered. "You'll make me feel safe again."

 _Safe?_ Even after all of this? He slowly raised his eyes again to stare into hers. "Do you feel safe right now?" he asked.

It took her a few seconds to answer, but she did say, "Yes."

How, though? How did she feel safe with him when he'd proven time and time again that he was so bad at protecting her?

"I know you'll never let anything happen to me," she said, but instead of making him feel better, that just made him feel worse. "Bellamy, can you just . . . can you just lay with me?" she asked pleadingly, pushing the covers back a bit.

 _Yeah,_ he thought, more than a little dazed by all of what had happened tonight. _Yeah, I can do that._ If she wanted him to lie in that bed with her and hold her, then he would, no questions asked.

He got under the covers with her, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she curled up beside him, using his chest as a pillow. She was definitely a lot more tense than she usually was when she lay in his arms, but . . . she was still _in_ his arms. She still felt safe and secure there.

It must have been pure exhaustion that eventually caused her to fall asleep, but Bellamy just lay there awake with the light still on, his mind racing. He thought about everything she'd said at the police station, every horrifying detail she'd revealed, the sketches she'd helped produce. But most of all, for some reason, he thought of what she'd said to her father right before they'd left.

" _Dad, I just wanna go home. Can I go home now?"_

It rang out all night long in his mind. He couldn't shut it off.

...

The kind of sleep that Clarke managed to fall into that night wasn't a particularly restful kind. She woke up every few minutes and thought about . . . everything. Thankfully, feeling Bellamy next to her helped.

At one point, however, she felt like she couldn't quite wake up. So she was stuck in this half-asleep state, where she wasn't quite sure whether she was dreaming or not. All she could picture were these two guys, and she felt their hands, and she felt the fear because of what they wanted to do to her.

"No," she whimpered, stirring, trying to force herself to completely wake up. "No." She started to move around on the bed the same way she had in that alley, struggling. No matter how much she tried to assure herself that she was just dreaming and that all she had to do was open her eyes, it _felt_ real. " _No . . ."_ She didn't feel her boyfriend next to her this time, and that sent her into a state of panic. "Bellamy?" she cried out. "Bellamy!"

She jolted awake suddenly, just in time to see him coming back into the bedroom. "Hey, hey, hey," he said, rushing to her side. "I'm here. I'm here." He scooped her up, and she flung her arms around him, hugging him tightly, grateful to feel _his_ hands on her back instead of the hands she'd been feeling in her dream. Grateful to hear _his_ voice in her ear as he soothed, "Shh, it's okay. I got you."

She'd been so startled that it took her a few long seconds of just holding him to even start to calm down. And even when her heartrate started to go back down and her breathing steadied, she still didn't want to let him go.

"It was just a dream," she said, more to herself than to him. That was to be expected. She'd have dreams, nightmares, probably many of them these next few nights. And even years from now, she'd probably still think about this from time to time. But she refused to let this take over her whole life. She wasn't going to give those two creeps the satisfaction of making her into a helpless a victim. She hadn't been helpless last night, and she wasn't about to be now.

"I'm sorry," Bellamy apologized, rubbing her back. "I just left the room for a minute."

"It's okay," she assured him, finding such comfort in his touch. She sat back, wiping the tears from beneath her eyes, and said, "I'm okay." The next couple days would be rough, but she was strong enough to make it through. Especially when she had Bellamy helping her. And her dad . . . her dad had helped a lot last night, too.

She glanced at the bedside clock, noting the time, trying to remember what time her father's flight was supposed to leave. "Is my dad still here?" she asked Bellamy.

"Yeah," he replied. "He spent the night."

Of course he had. God, as much as he had been annoying her lately, it really was good to have him there now. Being her father, he was automatically one of her caretakers. And even though she _could_ take care of herself, last night . . . last night, it'd really made her feel better knowing he would still take care of her, too.

"I should go talk to him," she decided, sliding around Bellamy so she could get out of the bed. She didn't want to walk out there just wearing one of his t-shirts, though, so she opened the drawer and took out a pair of sweatpants.

"Clarke."

She spun back around.

"You can just take it easy if you need to," he told her.

"I know." She quickly tugged the pants on and closed the drawer. There was no reason why she couldn't walk out there and have a conversation with her dad, though. She didn't need to lie around in bed all day, huddled up under a blanket. She didn't need a box of tissues in her hand 24/7. She was determined to make it through the day as an actual functional human being.

Leaving Bellamy in the bedroom, she walked out into the living room to find her dad sitting on the couch, looking at something on his phone. It was hard to say what, but knowing him and knowing the situation right now . . . probably some old pictures of her.

"Hey, Dad," she said softly.

"Hey." He immediately set his phone aside and scooted over on the couch to make room for her. "Did you get some sleep?"

"A little." She sat down next to him, folding her legs up. "What about you?" she asked. "Did you sleep?"

"No," he said, shaking his head sadly. "No, I was awake."

 _Worrying about me, no doubt,_ Clarke thought. That meant Bellamy probably hadn't slept, either. "What time do you have to be at the airport?" she asked him.

"Oh, I'm not . . . I'm not leaving," he said, and it didn't sound like anything was going to change his mind. "I'm gonna stay a little longer."

On the one hand, that sounded kind of nice, just because of the comfort factor of having him around. But on the other hand . . . all she wanted to do was get back to normal, and how could she do that if her dad was here. "You're gonna stay," she said, mulling that over. "Because of me?"

"Of course," he said, reaching over to put his hand on top of hers. "I'm here for you."

"But isn't Mom gonna wonder why you're still here?" she fretted. "I mean, what're you gonna tell her?" It suddenly dawned on her that maybe he'd _already_ told her everything, and then maybe her mom would catch the quickest flight out, too. She didn't know if she could handle both of them right now. The stress of that would be . . . a lot. "I don't want her to know what—what happened," she sputtered. "She'll freak out."

"I'll just tell her I'm staying a few more days then," he said. "You can tell her when you're ready."

She nodded, relieved that he hadn't gotten on the phone last night and told her mother everything. Maybe when she went home for the wedding and got to see her mom face to face again . . . maybe that was when she'd open up to her about all of this. Maybe.

"I would like to tell Thelonious, though," he said. "If that's okay. I don't wanna keep secrets from him."

 _You mean like how you kept secrets from me and mom?_ she thought. But she wasn't about to say it. Apparently her dad had learned from his mistakes. She supposed she couldn't fault him for that. "Just make sure he doesn't tell anyone else," she said. "Please." There were already enough people talking about her in that town. The last thing she needed was more rumors flying around. Something like this could so easily be misconstrued.

"Okay," her dad said.

She sighed, wishing there was a way to fast forward these next couple days. She'd get through, but it wasn't going to be the easiest thing in the world. Besides the emotional trauma of it all, there were less important things to think about, too. Like the fact that she'd had to leave her purse in that alley last night, with her keys and wallet in it. "What're we gonna do about my car and stuff?" she asked, hoping her dad had a plan for that. "It's still parked where I left it. I have no idea where my purse and everything ended up."

"You let me worry about all that," he said. "We should probably cancel your credit card, if nothing else."

"I don't have a credit card anymore," she informed him.

He cocked his head to the side curiously.

"I was a stripper, Dad," she muttered. "I always used cash."

He exhaled heavily. "Right."

The good news was, there hadn't been that much cash in her purse, so it wasn't like she'd lose a lot. But the thought of where her keys had ended up concerned her a bit. Surely nobody would be stupid enough to assault a girl and then drive around in her car afterward, though, right? However, the most unsettling thing of all was that her driver's license was in her wallet, with her name and address on it. She knew it wasn't likely that those guys would come looking for her, especially not after she'd fought them off. But still . . . she just didn't like the thought of that stuff being out there.

"So you didn't recognize those men at all last night?" her father inquired suddenly.

"No." They'd both been completely ordinary. Or . . . at least they'd seemed that way.

"But they recognized you," he pointed out.

"Yeah, look, I get it. None of this ever would have happened if I hadn't worked at Grounders. I was an idiot. I know," she acknowledged. If they hadn't recognized her, they probably would have whistled and said something crude and let her be on her way. But because she'd been a stripper, they'd assumed that that gave them the right to put their hands on her without her consent.

"I wasn't saying that," her dad clarified. "I just . . ." He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "This is what I was worried about," he said, staring down at his lap for a few seconds before he looked over at her. "I never wanted this to happen to you."

She blinked back tears, because . . . well, _obviously_ she'd never wanted it to happen to herself, either. And maybe it wouldn't have if she'd never moved to New York City. "It won't happen again," she assured him. "I'll be more careful from now on." There were things that she could do to be safer. Like not going out by herself at night. Never going back if and when somebody started to antagonize her. Continuing to practice self-defense. Yeah. There were a lot of things she could do.

...

Bellamy stood in the hall, listening in on Clarke's conversation with her dad. Eavesdropping, technically. He'd already talked to Jake a bit this morning, found out he wasn't leaving. Which was fine. Bellamy didn't expect him to leave, not after . . . all of this.

His phone was still in the bedroom, but he heard it ring, so he headed back in there to answer it. He recognized a work number and groaned before answering it. "Yeah?"

"Bellamy, where are you?" his boss asked shrilly.

"I can't come in today," he said. "Sorry, I forgot to call." His mind hadn't exactly been on work this morning. He didn't fucking care.

"What do you mean you can't come in?" his boss demanded.

"I mean . . . I can't come in. Something came up."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." He wasn't about to go into detail.

"Well, you don't sound sick," his boss remarked. "You haven't mentioned anyone dying."

He rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to just say 'I quit' and hang up. "Something happened last night . . . to my girlfriend," he said, keeping it as vague as possible. "I can't come to work today."

"What about tomorrow?"

He doubted he'd be going in tomorrow, either. "I don't know," he muttered, ending the call without another word. Screw work. Clarke was way more important, and he didn't plan on leaving her side today.

He'd just set his phone back on the nightstand when he looked up and saw Clarke standing in the bedroom door. He wasn't sure just how much she'd overheard, so he went ahead and asked, "Hey, you want something to eat?"

"No." She came into the bedroom and shut the door. "You're not gonna get fired, right?"

He shrugged. "Who knows?" It didn't really matter.

"Well, I was supposed to show up for training an hour ago, so . . ." She sat down beside him and sighed. "Looks like I don't have a job after all."

He nodded, more than a little relieved about that. It was ironic, being relieved that she was still out of work. But if Hooters was where she would have been working . . . hard pass.

"Probably for the best," she admitted. "You were right that I shouldn't work there."

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. It definitely wouldn't have been as bad as Grounders, but hell, if two random guys out on the street could recognize her, then she'd get recognized working there, too.

"My dad's staying," she said. "For a couple more days, at least. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, he was really . . . helpful last night." Jake was the one who'd insisted they go to the police station right away. Jake was the one who'd sat there with her while she provided details to the sketch artist. Jake was . . . Jake was the guy who knew what to do.

"He's good under pressure," Clarke said. "It's what makes him a good businessman."

"Hmm." Bellamy knew he could probably rule out a career in business then. Not that he'd ever wanted one. He wasn't as good under pressure. He could deal with it—hell, he'd been dealing with it all his life—but he tended to just react and let his emotions dictate how he reacted. He punched people or waved fake guns in their faces. He didn't keep himself calm.

"Bellamy?" she squeaked out. "Why do you look so guilty?"

 _Because I_ feel _guilty,_ he thought, averting his eyes.

"It's not your fault," she insisted.

Yeah, he tried telling himself that, but still . . .

"I fought back," she reminded him. "You taught me how to do that."

Only because she'd asked. And thank God she had. But he'd never intended for her to have to fight for herself, not when he should've been there to fight for her.

"Please don't feel guilty," she said. "I don't want things to be weird between us now."

He frowned, finally looking at her. "Why—why would they be weird?" he stuttered.

"I don't know," she mumbled, looking down at her lap. "Because maybe you'll be hesitant to . . . touch me. Or kiss me."

Kiss her? Was that even something she wanted right now?

Maybe he _was_ hesitant.

"It's not like I'm not breakable now," she said.

"I know." She was probably more of a brave, badass princess than she'd ever been before. But . . . she'd been through a lot.

"So will you just kiss me?" she practically pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper.

He had to admit . . . he was grateful for the invitation. Because he would have felt uncertain about it without one. Leaning over, he cupped her face and brought his mouth to hers, kissing her tenderly and carefully because of her swollen lip. Just a small, soft kiss. Nothing major. But it put the beginning of a smile on her face.

"We'll be okay," she said. And she sounded so sure.

 _Yeah,_ he thought, trying to match her level of certainty. _Yeah._


	67. Chapter 67

_Chapter 67_

Jake took care of going and getting Clarke's car for her. (Jake took care of a lot of things.) Clarke gave him her extra key, and he hopped in a cab and went and picked it up for her. When he returned to the apartment, he had not only the car with him, but also groceries. And he proceeded to make lunch for them. Bellamy tried to tell him he didn't have to do all of that, but he insisted.

Clarke ate, which was good, and she sat on the couch with Bellamy and watched some TV. But other than that, they didn't do very much. She talked about bringing some laundry down to the first floor, but Jake volunteered himself for that, too. Before he could, though, Clarke got a phone call from the police station. Her face turned white as she listened to them, and when she hung up the phone she looked at Bellamy and said, "They need me to go identify them."

 _Them?_ It took his tired mind a few seconds to realize what she was talking about. It was a police lineup. They needed her to confirm that they'd arrested the right guys.

They took Clarke's car to the station, and this time, Bellamy drove while she sat in the passenger's seat, her dad in the back. Jake was really the only one who did much talking. He kept assuring Clarke that it would be over quickly, and that this was a good thing, because it meant the men who did this were behind bars.

The lineup happened in a narrow, dimly-lit room. The same officer from last night escorted them back there and spoke directly to Clarke as he explained what would happen She would stand on this side of the glass and watch as six different men were brought out to stand in front of a plain backdrop. She would then identify which one of them was one of her attackers last night. They would then send them out, they'd bring in six others, and she'd do the same thing for the second man.

"So they—they can't see me, right?" she asked, sounding a bit nervous.

"No, it's a one-way mirror," the officer assured her. "You can see them, but they can't see you."

She breathed in and out shakily and said, "Okay."

Bellamy gave her hand a supportive squeeze.

"You're being very brave, Clarke," her dad told her.

"Please, do not say anything when they come out," the officer instructed. He motioned for both Jake and Bellamy to take a couple steps backward, but Bellamy didn't want to let go of his girlfriend's hand. Unfortunately, he had no choice when the officer grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm backward, breaking the link. He didn't know the ins and outs of the procedures, but he supposed no contact or communication was key during this. It was all about Clarke getting a good look at these guys—which he hated, because he couldn't even imagine how traumatizing it was to have to see them again.

"Bring them in," the officer instructed over a small radio.

Bellamy felt helpless as he stood there, watching Clarke tense up as, one by one, six men entered the room in front of her and stood in the same posture, each of them holding up a number in front of them. They all looked similar: same hair color and height and general build, and they'd dressed them all in the same clothes. Bellamy wasn't sure who they all were—maybe some were cops or actors or other prisoners. But somebody in there had tried to do something unthinkable to Clarke, something that Bellamy wanted to kill him for doing.

It didn't take Clarke long to identify someone. She looked at each man, barely even blinking, then said, "That one," and pointed towards the middle of the lineup.

"Which one?" the officer asked.

"Number four." She pressed her lips together tightly, and her jaw shook. But she held herself together.

When it was time to bring in the next group, it was the same procedure. Clarke picked this one out even faster. "Number one," she said, immediately looking away. She moved towards Bellamy, and he put his arms around her, turning so that her back was towards all of the men in that room, and only he could see them.

"Can I go now?" she asked quietly, her words mumbled against Bellamy's chest.

"Not quite," the officer said. "We found something that belongs to you."

They headed back out into the station, where Clarke was reunited with her purse. She looked through it and said, "Wow. Everything's still here."

"So clearly their motive was _entirely_ sexual if they didn't take anything," her father noted before asking the cop, "Does that strengthen her case at all?"

"My case?" Clarke echoed before they could get an answer. "What, like, a _court_ case? Am I gonna have to go to court for this?"

"It's . . . not likely," the officer assured her. "The evidence against these particular perpetrators is very strong. We've got security camera footage from all the surrounding buildings, your own testimony, and their priors working against them."

"Priors?" Bellamy asked. Had these creeps done something like this before? Why the hell would anyone let them back out on the streets if they had?

"A couple drug busts that put them on probation," the officer explained. "Most likely what will happen is that the prosecutors will strike a plea deal: a reduced sentence in exchange for a guilty plea."

"Re-reduced?" Clarke sputtered.

"They'll still be serving jail time," the officer promised her. "You can sleep easier now. We caught 'em."

Bellamy _really_ wanted to ask how long their sentences would be, but he already knew that it wouldn't be enough. For now, it was probably best to let Clarke try to find some relief in the fact that, at the very least, these guys weren't out prowling the streets right now.

"Thank you," she said told the officer.

"We'll let you know if we need anything else, but for now . . . just take care of yourself," he told her.

"She will," Jake said. "I have a few questions, if you don't mind." He turned to Bellamy and Clarke and said, "You two can go out and wait for me. I'll just be a minute."

Bellamy felt like a child being told to go wait at the car. He doubted that was how Jake meant for it to come across, but . . .

Clarke was eager to get out of the station, so he went with her. They stood up on the sidewalk and didn't say much at first. Bellamy wasn't quite sure what to say. Did he tell her she'd done a good job today? It wasn't like she'd gotten an A on a math test. She'd stood there and identified her two would-be rapists. It was brave as fuck, but he wasn't even sure whether he should bring it up or not.

"I know you don't like the thought of reduced sentences," she said finally, breaking the silence. "But I don't wanna drag this out in court. I just want it to be over. So that's good enough for me."

Nothing would ever be _good enough,_ but if she was okay with it, then he supposed he had to be, too. "Yeah," he said, already deciding that he might need to take a trip to the gym this week to work out his anger on a punching bag.

"What?" she asked, giving him a curious look. It was like she could sense he was displeased.

"It's just . . ." God, he didn't want it to drag out for her, either. He wanted her to be able to move on, but he also hated the thought of those guys getting off too easily. "They try to rape you and they end up with a plea deal," he muttered. "Just doesn't seem fair."

"Well, none of this is fair," she pointed out.

No, none of it was. What had Clarke ever done to deserve the things she'd gone through these past eight months? She wasn't some bad person who needed to be punished, so why the hell couldn't life let up on her a little bit? "Has anything like this ever happened back in Arkadia?" he asked, wondering if she knew of anyone who had gone through the same thing.

"No," she said. "Or if it did, I never heard about it."

He frowned as he contemplated that. So she'd left a place where this wouldn't have happened to her and she'd come here, where it had?

"What's wrong, Bellamy?" she asked, closing the small gap between them. "This is a good thing. They caught these guys. It's over."

Was it, though? He couldn't help but wonder. Was it really over? Would it ever be? Or would this kind of thing just keep happening to her? It was getting worse and worse all the time, and he felt powerless to stop it.

When Jake came out of the station, he interrupted Bellamy's train of thought, which was perhaps a good thing, because Clarke looked kind of worried, and he didn't have anything reassuring to say. "Alright," Jake said, "I hope you don't mind, but I got some information for a counselor I think you should go see."

"What?" Clarke spat. "A _counselor_?"

"Yes." He handed over a pamphlet for some clinic, one he must have gotten from inside. "She specializes in helping the victims of sexual assault."

"Dad, I'm not—I'm not a _victim_ ," Clarke argued.

"Yes, you are."

"Well, I don't wanna be." She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly and decided, "I'm not gonna go see some shrink. Plus, I can't afford it."

"I could pay for everything," he readily offered. "I really think it'd be worth it for you to have someone to talk to about everything you've been through."

"I'll talk to Bellamy," she declared.

Jake looked him in the eye, hesitating a moment before he slowly and deliberately asked, "What do you think, Bellamy? What's best for her?"

He felt like he was being put on the spot with that question. Because what was best for Clarke and what Clarke was wanting to do were quite possibly different things. Still, she was his girlfriend, and he wanted to support her, especially right now. "Whatever she decides," he finally answered. Hopefully she _would_ talk to him. Hopefully she wouldn't just try to pretend this had never happened.

"Thanks, but no thanks." She tore the pamphlet in half and handed the two halves back to her dad. "Come on," she said to Bellamy as she stepped down off the sidewalk and headed towards the passenger's side of the car, "let's just go home."

Bellamy cast a semi-wary glance at Jake. Neither one of them had to say anything to indicate their concern.

...

Clarke lay in bed that night, on her side, her back towards Bellamy. He'd gotten into bed after her, and she'd really been hoping that he'd spoon up behind her and cuddle with her tonight, but he was tossing and turning a lot. And not one of those tosses or turns moved him any closer to her.

"You still awake?" she finally asked.

"Yeah," he answered. "Sorry."

She rolled over onto her back and admitted, "I can't fall asleep, either." The moonlight peeking into the room made it possible for her to see the outlines of his sculpted chest, his large arms. He looked so good lying there. Probably felt good, too.

Without giving it much thought, she moved over and crawled on top of him bringing her mouth down to his so she could kiss him. He kissed her back and put his hands on her sides, but they didn't go anywhere. They didn't roam down to smooth over her ass, didn't slink up underneath the back of her shirt. They were just stationary, which wasn't like Bellamy. He loved touching her everywhere.

As their kissing deepened, she slipped one hand down in between the two of them, sliding over his chest, his abs, lower and lower until it was hovering right near the waistband of the sweatpants he'd worn to bed.

"Wait," he said, breaking the kiss as he reached for her hand and stopped her. "What're you doing?"

What was she _doing?_ Wasn't it obvious? She was trying to be intimate with her boyfriend. But it didn't really seem like he was in the mood right now, so . . . that was embarrassing. "Forget it," she said, getting off of him. She lay back down on her half of the bed, on her side with her back facing towards him again.

"Clarke . . ."

"No, just . . ." She trailed off and clutched the pillow beneath her head, a bit shook that Bellamy _clearly_ hadn't wanted to have sex with her. Had that ever happened before?

"Would you look at me?" he asked.

She felt a little too humiliated to look, but lying here not talking to him wasn't going to make her feel any better. So she turned over onto her other side, facing him, unable to look him in the eye.

"It's not that I don't want to," he started in.

"No, you _don't_ want to. Otherwise you would." Hell, she'd been on _top_ of him, clearly willing, and he hadn't been into it. Something was wrong.

"I'm just surprised you want to," he said. "I mean, do you really think we should have sex right now?"

They used to have a lot of sex, but ever since her dad had come to town, it'd been a bit of a dry spell. She _really_ wanted to get past that. "Sure," she replied. "Why not?"

"Because . . ." He trailed off.

She finally looked him in the eye again, and what she saw there was . . . sympathy. Which wasn't a bad thing in and of itself, but it was just _overwhelming_ sympathy. Mixed in with some guilt, even though she'd told him he didn't have to feel like anything that had happened was his fault. "You said you wouldn't be afraid to touch me," she reminded him.

"I'm not," he insisted.

She grunted. He was, though, obviously. That was why he _hadn't_ touched her much. That was why he'd stopped her from touching him. He was treating her like she was fragile now, and she didn't want to be treated that way.

"What do you want me to do, Clarke?" he finally spat out. "Just act like nothing happened?"

"I'm the one who gets attacked, and you're having a harder time letting it go than I am," she grumbled.

"Yeah, that's what worries me."

Propping herself up on her forearm, she made a face. "What do you mean it _worries_ you?" she asked. "Bellamy, you're starting to sound like my dad."

"Well, maybe he's right about some stuff."

She stared at him in disbelief, shocked to be hearing any of this. "Like what?"

It took him a few seconds to answer, but when he did, he couldn't even look at her. "Maybe you have gotten used to bad things happening."

"What?" she shrieked. Sitting all the way up, she gazed down at him, almost angry that he would even insinuate such a thing. "How can you say that? God, Bellamy . . ." She dragged one hand through her hair, shaking her head in astonishment. "Do you think this is easy for me?" Because it wasn't. None of it was easy. "I need you right now," she told him. "I need you to be my boyfriend. We don't have to sleep together. Just please, _please_ , don't start agreeing with my dad." Blinking rapidly, she felt a few tears spill over, and she struggled to contain herself. The last thing she needed was to be fighting with Bellamy right now.

He seemed to sense that, because he said, "Come here," and tugged on her arm gently, pulling her down next to him. He opened up his arm for her, and she lay beside him, at first hesitantly curling into his side. She didn't want to freak him out and try to get too close again. But gradually, his arm around her tightened, and he full pulled her into his warm embrace. She put her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart. It was beating so fast.

...

Bellamy went to see Jake at his hotel the next day. Pretty nice hotel. Expensive. Way more expensive than anything Bellamy could afford. The guy had been there for over a week, but . . . well, he had money to spend. Either that or Thelonious Jaha had. Bellamy wasn't sure how much of this 'new booming business' crap he was buying. That Jaha guy probably had some money, and now that they were no longer a secret, Clarke's father had access to it.

When Jake answered the door, he looked surprised to see him. "Bellamy. What're you doing here?"

"I'm on my lunch break," Bellamy replied as he came inside.

"It's 1:30," Jake pointed out.

Was it that late already? Oh, well. He was in no hurry to get back. "I'm on an extended lunch break," he amended. Right now, there were more important things going on than sitting in his cubicle doing work that didn't even really matter in the grand scheme of things.

"I'm surprised you even went in today," Jake remarked. He sat down at the small table next to the window and motioned for Bellamy to take the other chair. But Bellamy didn't feel like sitting down.

"I wasn't going to, but Clarke practically shoved me out the door," he said. He'd been in the middle of dialing the number to call in sick when she'd literally grabbed the phone out of his hand and told him that he didn't need to stay with her all day again today. Then she'd proceeded to pick out his clothes for him and pack him a lunch. "She's tired of thinking about it, tired of talking about it," he told her father. "She wants to get back to normal. I think she's gonna hang out with a friend of ours today." She'd mentioned something about giving Niylah a call, so he at least felt better knowing she probably wasn't alone.

"That might be good for her," Jake said.

"Yeah." He was proud of Clarke for being so resilient, but at the same time . . . he couldn't help but think that there might be other things that would be good for her, too. And one of those things was talking to someone, a professional, who could help her cope with whatever aftereffects the attack might have on her. "I was wondering if you might've grabbed two of those pamphlets yesterday," he said, hoping he might be able to convince her to go see someone better than Jake had.

Jake stood up, walked over to his suitcase, and pulled an extra pamphlet out of the front pocket. "Here," he said, handing it over to Bellamy.

"Thanks." He glanced through it quickly. It was for a whole treatment center, not one that she'd have to stay at or anything, but one that might still help. She could pop in, talk to a counselor, and get some stuff off her chest. Maybe she could do that once a month. It'd be pricey, but . . . they could find a way to make it work. Somehow.

"You don't think she'll talk to you, huh?" Jake said.

"No, she will, but . . ." This was all new to him, too. Relationships in general weren't his forte, so he was learning as he went along. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted. He wanted to be there for Clarke, but he didn't know when to push her to open up and when to just back off.

"Well, you're gonna have to figure it out," Jake told him. "Since she's dead-set on staying here."

 _Yep,_ Bellamy thought, folding up the pamphlet. He stuck it in his back pocket and figured he could just leave now that he'd gotten what he came for. But . . . he hung around.

Jake squinted at him and asked, "How long do you guys think you can keep your heads above water?"

 _Not long,_ he thought. Rent was due in two weeks, and right now, they didn't have enough money to pay it. "I have a job," he said, although that wasn't much of an assurance.

"I'm not just talking about money," Jake said. "How long until she gets pregnant?"

Bellamy tensed. They used protection, most of the time, and she was good about taking her pill, but . . . for some reason, he didn't feel like it'd be long. A couple months from now or something, some kind of accident would happen. And then, with a child on the way, they'd really be up a creek without a paddle.

"Or until something like this happens again and she can't fight them off this time?" Jake went on. "I mean, it seems to me that there are endless possibilities of things that can go wrong for her here. But she won't leave. Because of you."

He flinched. Because of him? Was it really _just_ because of him?

He swallowed hard. Yeah, he knew it was.

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad. It's not your fault," Jake told him. "She's just like any young girl in love. When she pictures the future, all she sees is you."

Bellamy let his eyes fall closed for a moment, and he pictured _his_ future. When he opened them again, he confessed, "She's all I see, too." He didn't care what he ended up doing for work or what kind of apartment or house he ended up living in. He just cared about Clarke, about being with her.

"Bellamy . . ." Jake hesitated for a moment, drawing in a long sigh and letting it back out. "I know you _really_ love her. You really do."

"Yeah." He loved her more than anything.

"She's the love of your life. Am I right?"

Once upon a time, he'd never even believed in such a thing, but ever since he'd fallen for Clarke, he knew that kind of thing did exist. "She's the only girl I've ever been in love with," he admitted. "I'd do anything for her."

"Anything?" Jake repeated.

"Yes." He'd tried already, but . . . it didn't seem like enough.

"Then deep down . . ." Jake stared at him intently. "I think you know what you need to do."

Bellamy stared back at him, his eyes widening in horror as those words forced him to think about it. About the thing he didn't want to think about. About the thing that had been lingering in the back of his mind ever since Clarke had spilled into their apartment the other night, sobbing and bleeding and out of breath from running home. "I can't do it," he said.

"Can't?" Jake echoed. "Or won't?"

"Can't." It seemed impossible, on so many levels. "I can't just tell her to go back with you. I can't tell her what to do."

"You really think she won't listen to you?"

"No, she won't. Not about that." She hadn't listened to him when he'd told her not to work at Grounders, so she wasn't going to listen to him about this, either. Sometimes it was hard to get Clarke to change her mind, so it wasn't as simple as just giving her advice. "But I could leave with her," he said, thinking out loud. "I mean, I don't really have anything great going on here. I'm giving up on acting. I don't need to stay." It wouldn't be the first time he'd packed up his whole life to start over somewhere else. He'd done it before; he could do it again.

"Bellamy . . ." Jake pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. "I have nothing against you," he said. "In fact, I admire the love you have for my daughter. But if she comes home to Arkadia, she needs to come alone. That's the only way she's gonna be able to start over and have a clean slate."

His stomach knotted up. No, no, no, he didn't wanna hear this.

"If you go with her, then all the baggage of what she's done here goes with her, too," Jake explained. "She won't be able to move on. And that's what she needs to do."

Bellamy gulped, not ready to face the possibility that she might not be able to move on if he was with her. But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it.

"If she comes back alone with me, I can help her get her life back on track," Jake stated confidently, hopefully. "In a couple months, she won't be the girl who left town and became a stripper and cheated on her boyfriend. She'll just be Clarke again."

 _She's_ still _Clarke,_ Bellamy thought. She wasn't a completely different person now than she had been before. She'd just changed.

"I've already spoken with her mother about this," Jake revealed. "She agrees that it'd be best for you to stay here."

Her mom? Her dad and her mom had talked about him? As much as Jake claimed to have no issues with him, he wondered if that was really true. Maybe he'd trashed him on the phone. Maybe Clarke's mom was prepared to hate him for standing back and allowing her daughter to make choices that had forever altered her life.

"You realize what you're asking me to do?" he said, his voice cloaked with emotion. "You're asking me to give her up."

"You said you'd do anything," Jake readily reminded him. "Are you going to be selfish with her, or are you willing to put her needs first?"

 _Her needs,_ he thought. _Always._ But they needed each other, too. As physically intimate as they'd become with each other, there was more to their relationship than that. Clarke was his best friend, the one person who . . . She was just the one person.

"She won't go without me," he predicted. "Even if I tell her to, she won't go."

"That's not necessarily true."

"I'm telling you, she'll stay with me. She's stubborn." Even though he could acknowledge that Arkadia was probably a much better fit for Clarke right now, he didn't see how he could possibly convince her to go back there. "I don't know what you expect me to do or say to her to get her to change her mind," he said.

Jake didn't say anything. He just kept looking at him, eyes locked, wordlessly communicating.

Bellamy knew where this was going. He knew there was no way around it. "You want me to break up with her?"

Jake actually looked sympathetic towards him, but he stayed strong with his conviction. "Is there any other way to do this?" he said. "Is there any other way to give her a clean break?"

No, there probably wasn't. But breaking up with her wouldn't be . . . it wouldn't be _clean._ It'd be messy. It'd be horrible. "I don't wanna hurt her," he said.

"If you break up with her for her own good, you won't be hurting her. You'll be helping her," Jake argued. "She won't understand that at first, but in the long run, she'll be grateful for it. She'll thank you."

He snorted, having a hard time picturing that. "Or she'll hate me."

Jake shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "She hated me once, too. But she got over it."

 _So she'll get over . . . me,_ Bellamy thought. What a knife in the gut. Clarke would have to get over him. But he doubted he'd ever be able to get over her.

"She'll get over a lot of things if she comes back home to Arkadia," Jake said.

He thought back on all those things that had to still be troubling her, the things her father could only scratch the surface of understanding. There was no way she'd gotten past what Roan had done, and even though McCreary hadn't ever gotten the chance to put a hand on her, the lengths to which he'd gone to try . . . that had to rattle her to her core. And now she had those two punks from the police lineup to give her nightmares. And it wouldn't stop. Even though she'd stopped dancing, it never ended for her here. All Clarke wanted to do was move on, but this city wasn't going to allow her to do that.

...

"So Murphy's freaking out about his impending fatherhood," Niylah babbled as she and Clarke walked down the sidewalk, starting to get a little too close to 5th and Gram for comfort. They had to pass that to get to the café where they were having a late lunch. But she really wanted to take a detour.

"He had a mental breakdown the other night," Niylah went on. "Not like the serious kind, but the fun kind, you know? The kind where all I could do was sit there and laugh at him because he was being _such_ a spaz."

Clarke squeezed her shoulder in as a man who looked somewhat similar to one of them from the other night walked past. It wasn't the same guy, she knew, since he was behind bars. But still . . . it was just a little unsettling.

"Hey, are you even listening?"

"What?" She looked up at Niylah and said, "Yeah. Papa Murphy. That's gonna be a trip."

"Definitely," Niylah agreed. "I think Emori's starting to show now, don't you?"

"A little bit, yeah." Up ahead, Clarke could see Gram Street. Maybe it wasn't too late to convince Niylah to go eat somewhere else?

Suddenly, her friend moved in front of her, blocking her progress. "Clarke, are you okay?" she asked outright. "You've been kinda spacey today."

Yeah, she really had been. She'd been trying _so hard_ to just be present and not be thinking about a million other things, but it was hard. "Sorry," she apologized. "The past few days have been . . ." She didn't even have the vocabulary to describe the past few days. "Niylah, be careful at the club, alright?" she warned, hoping this girl would never find herself in a similar situation. "Once people start to see you a certain way there, it's really hard to change their minds."

Niylah frowned. "Did something happen?"

As much as she didn't want to talk about it . . . she hated holding it in, too, feeling like she was keeping it a secret. If Harper had still been around, she would have already told her. But since Harper had moved, Niylah was probably the next best thing. "The other night . . . I was attacked," she revealed quietly. "By two guys."

Immediately, Niylah looked horrified.

"I fought them off and the police caught 'em, but . . ." Clarke exhaled shakily, _so_ glad that Bellamy had taught her how to defend herself. "You just have to be careful," she said. If Niylah was going to be Number One now, she needed to know what she was getting into it. It wasn't worth it.

"Oh my god, Clarke," her friend gasped.

"It's okay," she said. "I mean . . . _I'm_ okay." She flinched a bit as someone else walked past—not even a man, this time, but a woman—and bumped into her. "Mostly," she corrected. There was definitely some anxiety she was going to have to overcome now. But she could do it. "Bellamy feels horrible for not being there," she said. "I think he feels like it's his fault."

"Oh god. Come here." Niylah hugged her tightly and said, "You fought back. I'm so proud of you. But I'm so sorry that happened."

Clarke pulled back slowly and nodded in agreement. Even if this ended up making her stronger, she would have rather it never happened at all. "I just wanna move on," she said. "But I'm nervous."

"Why?" Niylah asked.

Her stomach churned as she thought about last night, about how aloof her boyfriend had been in bed. "Because," she replied, "I don't think Bellamy's handling it well."

...

Bellamy collapsed in bed and shut his phone off when it became apparent that work wouldn't stop calling. His extended lunch break was turning into an afternoon off, and he honestly didn't care. Let them fire him. It didn't matter.

He lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to sort shit out in his brain. His conversation with Jake had left his head spinning, and he felt like there was just this pit of despair in his stomach. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He felt like anything he decided was bound to hurt Clarke in some way. And he didn't want to hurt anyone. He'd never wanted to hurt anyone.

...

 _Bellamy tip-toed through the kitchen and into the living room, stepping over dirty clothes, used paper plates, and empty bottles on his way to the couch. His mom lay there, eyes closed, hand on her forehead, and he waited until he was sure she wasn't asleep yet to say, "Here, Mom," and hold out another bottle for her._

 _Slowly, she opened her eyes, then groaned as she sat up. "About time," she said, snatching the bottle right out of his smaller hand. Bellamy wasn't even sure what was in it, but whenever she drank it, all her words started blending together, and he couldn't understand her very well. He'd tried a sip once, but it tasted bad, so he didn't understand why she liked it so much. But whenever he told her to go get him a bottle, he went and got her one, because she got mad if he didn't._

 _He stood there and watched as she took three pills off the table, popped them into her mouth, and then took a_ big _drink. He wasn't sure what those pills were, either, but she didn't get them from the doctor. And Octavia had almost eaten one off the floor last week. She was just a baby. She didn't know better._

" _Thank you," his mother said, and for a second, Bellamy actually smiled. But when she added, "Now . . . get out of my face," he pouted again. He didn't understand why she was always so mad at him. He did what she told him to do. He cleaned what she told him to clean and went and got her things when she told him to go get her things. He was just trying to be good._

" _Don't look at me like that," she grumbled. "You don't know what I went through to have you."_

 _Her words were already mixing together. Because this was her third bottle._

" _I got stuck with you," she growled. "And look what it did to me."_

 _His mouth quivered, and he felt like crying. But if he started crying, she'd just tell him to stop._

 _He heard baby noises behind him, and when he turned, he saw his little sister toddling out of the hallway with a block in her hand and her blankie in the other. She saw him and tried to run, but she wasn't good at walking yet, so she tripped and fell. The block rolled out of her hand, and she started to cry as she reached for it. She cried all the time, and whenever she cried, their mom just got annoyed and started yelling._

" _Come on, Octavia," he said, bending down to help his sister up. She was too heavy for him to carry, but he took her tiny hand in his and walked with her into his bedroom. He wasn't sure what happened to his mommy when she drank that stuff and took those pills, but he was sure his one year-old sister didn't need to see it._

...

Bellamy sniffled as tears stung at his eyes. Great, as if he didn't already have enough to think about, now he was thinking back to childhood, too. Just what he needed.

A loud pounding on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Bellamy, it's me," he heard Jake say. "Open up, please. I need to talk to you."

Hadn't they already talked enough? There wasn't anything more that guy could say. Still . . . Bellamy reluctantly got out of bed, trudged to the door, and opened it. He couldn't disguise the exhaustion in his voice when he said, "What?"

Jake squeezed inside and said, "I realize you're struggling with this."

"Struggling?" He actually laughed at that, incredulously, and wandered into the kitchen. "Yeah, that's one word for it." It was more than a struggle, though. The thought of breaking up with Clarke, even if it was for her own good . . . it killed him.

"I know that you know this needs to be done," Jake said as he followed him. "And it's not gonna be easy, but it's for the greater good. Clarke's greater good. You can set her free from this place. Isn't that the greatest thing you could ever give her?"

He felt like there was so much more he could give her someday, if he just had the chance. A real home. A wedding. And down the line, yeah, a family. A family they could raise with a lot more love than his mother had raised him. But none of that mattered or would ever become a reality if she . . . if something bad happened to her before then.

"I don't know if I can do it," he mumbled, holding onto the edge of the counter, every one of his muscles braced and tight.

Jake looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "Then allow me to offer a little incentive." He reached into his pocket and took out a small, folded piece of paper, offering it to Bellamy. Even before he took it, he could tell it was a check.

"What the hell is this?" he said as he unfolded it. His eyes bulged at the number. Twenty- _thousand_ dollars. In a check made out to him.

"If you're giving something up, you should get something in return," Jake said.

Bellamy stared at that number again, feeling like his head was about to explode. Was this really happening? Was Clarke's dad really offering him a check for breaking up with her? "I don't want your money," he said, trying to hand it back.

But Jake wouldn't take it. "You need it," he said.

Well, of course he needed it, but . . . not like this. "This doesn't get you anywhere in New York City," he informed the man.

"Then we'll add another ten thousand to it," Jake said, as if another ten-thousand were nothing. Whatever money he'd lost, he'd found some again, because this wasn't just pocket change. "That should help you start over," he said, and Bellamy frowned. This wasn't about _him_ starting over; it was about Clarke doing that.

There wasn't a chance in hell he was going to take this guy's money for this reason, so Bellamy opened up the cabinet beneath the sink and tossed it in the trash.

"Suit yourself," Jake said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and slowly trekked to the door. He stopped with his hand on the nob, though, and turned back. "I know you'll do the right thing, Bellamy," he said. "For Clarke."

 _The right thing._ God, what if it wasn't right, though? What if neither one of them ever felt anything like this ever again? He knew he wouldn't.

"Even if I break up with her," he said, "she still might stay." He could picture that, actually, Clarke being so stubborn that she stayed in New York City with hopes that he'd come around. And then she'd be in an even worse position, because she'd truly be on her own here.

"That's why you can't just break up with her," Jake said, his voice calm and even. "You have to break her heart."

Bellamy's _own_ heart just about shattered at the thought. Could he do that? Even if he had to?


	68. Chapter 68

_Chapter 68_

Lunch with Niylah had been sort of . . . awkward. Clarke could tell that Niylah so badly wanted to know more about her attack, but she was also very careful about not asking about it. So all of their conversation ended up feeling more like small talk. They talked more about Murphy and Emori and the new girl at the club who Niylah wanted to hook up with than anything else. Niylah asked if she wanted to talk more about Bellamy, but that was the kind of conversation she usually had with Harper. Maybe she could FaceTime her tomorrow.

The truth was, she didn't want to talk _about_ Bellamy; she wanted to talk _to_ him. Maybe they needed to clear the air, or maybe they just needed to go do something fun together, like see a movie or go out for dinner. So she cut her late lunch with Niylah short, making the excuse that she wasn't feeling well, and headed home. On the way, she took out her phone and called Bellamy, but it went straight to voicemail.

" _Hey, it's Bellamy. Leave me a message."_

She sighed frustratedly as the beep signaled her to begin. "Hey, I'm on my way home. Just wanted to see if you were home yet." If he wasn't, she might hop in the shower, blow-dry her hair, and put on some fresh makeup before he got home. The likelihood of going out increased if she _looked_ ready to go out. "Look, I know things have been weird between us lately," she admitted, "so maybe we can do something tonight. Just you and me. My dad doesn't have to tag along." As grateful as she was for him staying these past couple days and as helpful as he'd been in the immediate aftermath of the attack, there wasn't much he could do now, except continue to get under Bellamy's skin. "Actually, I think he'll be leaving in a couple days, so . . . that'll probably be good for us," she said, but since she was just leaving a voicemail and not actually talking to him, she didn't want to say too much. "Alright, well, I'll see you when I see you, I guess," she wrapped up. "I love you. Bye." She ended the call, disappointed that she hadn't been able to actually talk to him and solidify some plans. She'd be home soon enough, though. They could figure out what to do when she got home.

...

Bellamy leaned over the counter, playing Clarke's voicemail on speakerphone.

" _I love you. Bye."_

He'd listened to it three times, mostly just to hear that last part. Because it was . . . really bittersweet.

He saved the voicemail, just in case that was the last time he ever heard her say she loved him, and left his phone on the counter as he trudged down the hall to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway, looking at those tousled covers—neither one of them had made the bed this morning—and all he could think about was how beautiful Clarke looked when they were getting tangled up in those sheets. In his mind, he heard her laughing as he pinned her down on the mattress, heard her giggling his name. _"Bellamy!"_

He closed his eyes and thought about what it felt like to kiss her, to have his hands on her, to feel her smooth skin sliding against his body. To be inside her. To watch her cum. To feel it. It wasn't just a physical thing when they slept together. It was chemical, emotional. Damn near spiritual. When they were together like that, he forgot about everything else. Even the bad things.

He glanced next at her guitar, the one he'd bought for her, sitting in the corner. He thought of her voice and how it sounded when she sang, and he remembered sitting out on the balcony with her, listening to her sing, _"For a minute there, I lost myself. I lost myself."_ Among other things. He remembered watching her up on stage, singing karaoke way better than the average person could sing karaoke. She was do damn talented, good at just about everything she tried. It was just that her opportunities were limited sometimes. It wasn't her fault that she'd ended up at Grounders. It wasn't her fault that people there had shaped her into the Girl Next Door.

Jarringly, he started thinking about his mom again next, the woman he had left under his little sister's supervision. He remembered the same one-way conversation he had earlier, back when he'd been just a little boy. _"I got stuck with you. And look what it did to me."_ Those words rang out in his head over and over again.

" _I got stuck with you."_

 _Stuck with you._

 _Stuck._

God, he didn't want Clarke to get stuck, too.

" _And look what it did to me."_

 _Look what it did._

 _Look._

He'd never meant to ruin his mom's life. It wasn't like he'd had a say in whether or not he was born, let alone how he'd been conceived. But he sure as hell didn't want to ruin anyone else's life, either, by being selfish. But he _had_ been selfish, hadn't he? He'd watched Clarke dance, just like the rest of the people in that club had. He hadn't stopped it from happening.

When he heard the front door open and close, he knew his girlfriend was home. And his whole stomach churned because . . . he knew what he had to do.

"Bellamy?" she called. "Are you here?"

 _Please don't hate me,_ he thought as he headed down the hall. _Please don't hate me forever._

"Hey," she said, smiling a bit when she saw him. "I tried calling you."

"Yeah, I didn't hear my phone," he lied. God, seeing that smile almost killed him.

"Did you get my voicemail?" she asked.

"Mmm-hmm." He'd probably never delete it.

"So do you wanna do something tonight?" she asked, sounding hopeful.

He wished they could. He really did.

"Or not," she mumbled in response to his silence.

"No, it's just . . ." He loved hanging out with her. They didn't need to have sex to have a good time together. But those days were over now. He was gonna have to cherish the memories. "We should talk," he suggested, trying to stay as calm as he could.

Slowly, she set her purse down on the kitchen counter and remarked, "Well, that sounds nice and ominous. But okay. What do you wanna talk about?"

He motioned to the couch. "Let's sit down."

"I don't wanna sit," she said stubbornly. "Just talk, Bellamy."

How was he supposed to just talk, though? How was he supposed to say any of this? He'd been thinking about it ever since her dad had left, but he didn't have anything planned. And even if he had come up with some script to follow . . . breaking her heart was gonna break his. "Alright," he said, feeling like he couldn't back out now. "These past couple weeks have been pretty crazy, you know, with your dad and . . . what happened to you and everything."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Not gonna argue with you there."

He nodded, trying to ease into it as much as he possibly could. "I feel like it's brought up some issues for us."

"Issues?" she echoed, a hint of concern in her voice.

"Yeah."

She looked at him expectantly and prompted, "Such as . . .?"

Oh god, she wasn't gonna make this easy. She knew they'd been going through some stuff, but she didn't want to admit it. So it was all on him. "Come on, Clarke," he said, "you know what I'm talking about."

"All I know is that you've been letting my dad get into your head," she claimed. "He's a talker, Bellamy. He's a businessman. It's his job to convince people to agree with him."

It hadn't happened that way, though. It was easy to think that it had, but all her father had done was magnify the concerns he'd already had.

"Bellamy, you're really freaking me out," she admitted in a rush. "Can we just—can we just go for a walk? A run, I don't know." Her voice shook as she spoke. "We could go see a movie."

"We don't even have money to go see a movie," he pointed out.

"Look, if that's what this is about, then don't worry. I'll ask my dad for a loan if I have to. I'll get a job." He gave her a sharp look, so she quickly added, "Not at Hooters." Then she looked into the living room and said, "And we can move to a cheaper apartment if we have to."

"Cheaper than this?" They were in a low-rent place already. "That'll mean it's in an even worse neighborhood. That sounds great. Fantastic." A new apartment wouldn't fix things. Their problem was bigger than that. "Money's not our only issue, Clarke," he informed her, hoping she'd get there on her own, that she wouldn't make him spell it out for her.

"Okay, so enlighten me," she urged. "What are our other 'issues?'"

He wracked his brain, trying to think of how to say it. His heart told him to go easy on her, but his head . . . his head was telling him that Jake was right, that it wasn't just enough to break up with her. He had to be willing to make her feel bad just so she'd feel like going home.

"I'm waiting," she snapped impatiently.

 _Oh, here we go,_ he thought, wincing internally. _Here we go._ Looking her right in the eye, he said, "It's you, Clarke. There's always something bad happening to you."

Her eyes widened, and she fell silent for a few seconds, clearly taken aback by that. "I can't help it," she finally squeaked out.

"Not all the time, no. But it just seems like, if it's not one thing, it's another. If it's not Roan, it's McCreary. If it's not either of them, it's two guys we don't even know."

She glared at him in disbelief. "Are you seriously blaming me for all of that?"

"No, I would never . . ." Even if he was saying this stuff on purpose, he never wanted to insinuate that. "I'm not _blaming_ you," he assured her. "What they did was wrong. It's their fault, and I hate them all for it. But the whole reason any of that happened to begin with was 'cause you didn't listen to me. You started working at Grounders, even when I told you not to. I warned you. I told you you didn't know what you were getting into, but you just got into it anyway."

She blinked, astonished, as a few tears spilled over, and it took her a few stunned seconds to respond. "Okay, fine, I probably made a mistake," she acknowledged.

"Probably?"

"I did, alright? I . . . you were right," she admitted. "I shouldn't have worked there. But I did." Shrugging helplessly, she said, "I can't go back and change the past, so . . . all I can do is think about the future."

 _The future._ Those words reminded him of something Jake had said. "And what do you see when you think about the future?" he asked her.

"You," she blurted without hesitation. "Us."

He nodded. Yep. Jake had said he was all she'd see of the future.

"Or at least I did until we started having this conversation," she mumbled, clutching at the necklace around her neck. It was the one he'd gotten her for Christmas, the silver treble clef. He hadn't even noticed she was wearing it, but now that he did . . .

 _Oh god._

"What's going on, Bellamy?" she asked tearfully. "Why are you being like this?"

 _Because I have to,_ he thought. But he couldn't say that. "I'm just trying to be honest with you," he said. "I worry about you, more than anything. More than I even worry about my own sister. How fucked up is that?" He grunted, shaking his head. His sister lived with their addict of a mother, and yet he still worried about Clarke more. Because he knew Octavia had Ilian. Clarke pretty much just had him. "I worry all the time that something's gonna happen that you," he said, "something you can't bounce back from."

"It won't," she said quickly.

"It almost did. Just the other night." Didn't she see that? Didn't she see how it was getting worse and worse all the time?

"Bellamy, I _fought back,_ " she reminded him emphatically.

"You shouldn't have to fight back. You shouldn't have to fight at all."

"I'm not some damsel in distress who needs her knight in shining armor, okay?" she argued. "I know that's what you like being, but-"

"No, I don't _like_ any of it, Clarke," he cut in vehemently. "That's the point. And I'll never be used to it. I'll never be used to-"

"Are you saying I'm _used_ to it?" she screeched. "Because we already had this discussion."

Maybe that wasn't the right word for it, but whatever it was touched on some _deeply_ -rooted concerns he had when it came to women he cared about. "I watched my mom get used to it," he told her. "Day in and day out, I watched her just put up with horrible things happening in her life." Some of the things he'd watched her put up with were too horrible to describe to anyone, even to her. "I don't wanna watch you do that. I won't."

"So what—what're you saying?" she stammered. "Bellamy, I don't get this. I don't get what you're . . . I don't know what you're getting at! But it's really starting to upset me, so can you please just stop?" She began to cry steadily, begging with him. "Please?"

No, he couldn't stop. Not now. He'd said too much. The only way to make this worth it was to make sure she was going to be safe.

No more beating around the bush. He had to say it: "I think you should go back to Arkadia with your dad."

She looked like someone had just hit her with a freight train, or like she'd just seen a ghost or gotten sucker-punched or all three at once. "What?" she gasped.

"When he leaves in a couple days . . . I think you should leave with him." Bellamy had to blink back his own tears, because this hurt worse than . . . anything. Anything he'd ever gone through before.

"What about you?" she squeaked out.

He stared at her sadly and shook his head.

"No," she said defiantly. "No, if you want me to leave, then you should come with me."

It was so tempting, but what if her dad was right? What if he held her back? What if her parents wouldn't help her as long as she was dating him? What if people never got over the way they were judging her because they all knew they'd had an affair? What if she woke up, looked at him one morning, and saw a reminder of everything bad that had happened to her here, everything he hadn't been able to protect her from?

"I don't belong there," he said simply, keeping his worries to himself.

"And I do?"

"Yes. Because people know you there. They know they don't have the right to touch you."

"So then—then we should just go somewhere else," she sputtered, moving towards him. "Another city."

"Why, so we can just struggle there, too?" He leaned back against the counter, entertaining for a moment whether or not that'd be possible. But their problems weren't just going to vanish if they moved. They still wouldn't have any money or decent jobs or . . . anything, really. She deserved better than that. "Clarke, your dad can help you right now in ways that I can't," he insisted. "He can help you go to college and-"

"I don't even know if I wanna go to college!" she yelled.

"But at least with him you'd have the chance. You're never gonna get that with me. We're always gonna be just scraping by, no matter where we go." Maybe his life had to be that way, but she had other options. "I want your life to be better than that."

"Better than it is with you?" She shook her head stubbornly as more tears streamed down. "Bellamy, I love you."

He sighed, sort of wishing her voicemail _I love you_ had been the last one he'd heard. "I know."

"And you love me, too," she said. But then, as if she really wasn't sure, she whimpered, "Don't you?"

He knew he was supposed to be breaking her heart, but . . . he couldn't lie about that. "Yes," he responded. "So much." It was _because_ of how much he loved her that he was willing to do this for her.

"Then we—we shouldn't even be having this conversation," she said. "Because if we love each other, then that's all that matters."

"That's not all that matters," he argued. "Your _life_ matters, Clarke. What happens to you matters."

She threw her hands up and said, "I can't believe I'm even hearing this," as she walked away from him.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. A half-assed apology, because being too apologetic wouldn't get the job done. "It's something I've been thinking about ever since your dad came to town, but the other night . . ." He clenched his jaw and shook his head. "That's what really pushed it over the edge."

She whirled back around, asking, "The attack?"

"Yeah." That wasn't a lie, either. If that hadn't happened, they probably wouldn't have been having this conversation. But if that hadn't happened, then something else would have. It felt inevitable. People in that city didn't view Clarke as a person; they thought of her as her persona. "I can't be selfish with you," he said, more to himself than to her.

" _Be_ selfish," she urged, coming towards him again. "I don't wanna leave you."

"You know it's for the best." She had to leave. He had to make her leave.

"How?" she cried. "How is it for the best if I'm not with you?"

"You have family there. You have friends."

"But I want you," she said stubbornly.

"Why?" he went ahead and asked. "I'm not that great." Surely there were better guys out there, guys who could give her a lot more than he could.

"You're the most amazing person I've ever known," she said.

"Clarke, I haven't done anything with my life!" How was that amazing?

"That's not true," she persisted.

"Oh, really? Tell me, then, tell me something I've done." He hadn't gone to college, hadn't made it as an actor. He'd really never accomplished much of anything. Anyone could see that.

"You've made me feel things I've never felt before," she said. "With anyone. Things I'll never feel again."

He rolled his eyes, because that wasn't the kind of accomplishments he was talking about.

"It doesn't matter to me how much money you have or where you come from or . . . any of that," she said, putting her hands on his chest, near his shoulders. "What matters is you're you," she said. "And I'm me, and it's supposed to be you and me, Bellamy. We're supposed to be together. Us against the world." She tried to smile as she said that last part, but she just started crying again. She looked down, probably trying to conceal some tears, but they were falling pretty rapidly now. Hell, he felt like crying, too. "What . . . what's happening?" she wondered through her tears. Lifting her head to look into his eyes again, she just stared at him for a few seconds, then slowly lowered her hands from his shoulders as the full gravity of this conversation dawned on her. She took a step back, her voice barely above a whisper when she asked, "Are you breaking up with me?"

He felt like all he'd wanted at one point was to be with her. He'd waited for that. And now he had it, but . . . he had to let go.

"I'm so sorry," he managed to say, shaking his head regretfully, keeping his jaw clenched so he didn't start crying, too.

"Sorry?" she spat, laughing angrily. "You're _sorry?_ "

He was _so_ sorry.

"How can you do this to me?" she cried shrilly.

"I'm doing it _for_ you," he tried to explain.

"Oh, because it's what's good for me, right?" She grunted, then said sarcastically, "Yeah, this is really good for me. I feel great right now."

"I know you can't understand it yet, but . . ."

"No! But nothing!" she yelled. "I don't understand! I will _never_ understand! I—I gave you everything, Bellamy." Breaking down into open sobs now, she closed the distance between them and once again put her hands on his chest. "Nobody knows me like you do," she said, gazing up at him pleadingly. "You can't expect me to just give that all up. And how can you—how can _you_ give that all up?"

 _I have to,_ he kept thinking. _I have to._ One of them had to bite the bullet and do this, and it sure as hell was never going to be her.

"How can you just give up, Bellamy?" she demanded, curling her hands into fists. "You're the one who taught me how to fight. You should fight for us." She pounded her hands against his chest, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to let out her frustration. "How . . ." Whatever else she was going to say just got _lost_ in tears as she took a step backward.

"Clarke, come here." He tried to reach out for her, to hug her, because he hated seeing her like this, seeing her crying. Especially since he was the reason for it this time.

"No, don't . . ." She threw her hands up and backed away. "Don't touch me."

 _Don't touch you?_ he thought. Oh god, he'd lost the right to do that now, too, hadn't he? "I'm sorry," he said again. It wasn't enough, but it was all he had.

"Don't say that."

"But I am."

"No, just stop!" she shouted. "Don't say that. Don't do this, Bellamy, please."

He tilted his head back, holding his tears in, gulping as he tried to remain steadfast.

She must have sensed that he wasn't changing his mind, because she suddenly declared, "Well, I won't go then. Even if you do break up with me, I know it's not because you don't love me. So I won't go."

 _But you can't stay,_ he thought. That was the one thing he absolutely _couldn't_ have result from this. He couldn't break up with Clarke and then have her fending for herself here. That was the worst case scenario.

He'd known it might come to this, that she might be so unwilling to accept what he was saying that she'd just refuse to go along with it. But he knew there was more he could say. Things that weren't necessarily true, but . . . if they got her home, then he could force himself to say them.

"Do you have any idea what a burden it's been to love you?" he said, nearly choking on that word.

She fell silent, once again staring at him with a shell-shocked look on her face.

"I mean, just constantly wondering if you're okay or if you're out there making stupid decisions with your life again . . ." he went on. "It's exhausting."

Her eyes shimmered. Any minute, it seemed like she was just going to collapse on the floor, crying as hard as she'd cried the other night after running home.

"I know I said I'd always look out for you, but I didn't realize how much I was gonna have to do that," he kept going, knowing that he _had_ to keep going and be willing to hurt her feelings if this was going to work. "I didn't realize it'd just be one thing right after another. But maybe I should've. You're only nineteen. You were never ready for any of this." The words all burned his throat. He hated saying them.

It took her a pretty long moment to respond, didn't seem like she even knew what to say. "I didn't mean to . . . be a burden," she mumbled.

"No, I know you didn't." She hadn't even been one, but . . . that was the word they were going with. That was one of the words that could push her away. "You can't help it that you're beautiful and people wanna be with you. I mean, I wanted to be with you." He purposefully used the past tense, even though he still wanted it. "But now I just don't think it's worth it," he forced himself to say. "For either of us."

"But you . . ." Again she clutched her necklace, but this time she looked down at her hand, at the cheap little ring on her hand, and growled, "You gave me a promise ring, Bellamy."

"Out of a claw machine. Come on." He had to downplay it, but . . . it was more than that.

"But you said it meant something. You said . . . you _said_ it was gonna be the real thing someday," she reminded him. "Were you just lying to me?"

Oh, he would have loved for it to be the real thing. Even though he couldn't afford a nice ring. Even though he'd probably never be able to. He would have loved to put a real ring on Clarke's finger. "I wanted things to work out," he said, letting those thoughts remain his own as he carried on with the cruelty. "But clearly they're not going to. So we're better off just cutting our losses with each other now."

"Are you serious?" she gasped.

He swallowed hard, deciding to say something that would _really_ hurt. Just because he sensed that he was getting closer to changing her mind. "I may love you, Clarke," he said, "but that doesn't mean I wanna spend the rest of my life with you."

Everything about her . . . it just froze. Her mouth froze, agape, and her eyes froze with tears filling them. She didn't move, didn't say anything. It was like her whole world had just fallen out from underneath her.

 _It's just acting,_ he reminded himself. _You're just acting._

"I'm sorry, but I don't wanna spend the rest of my life worrying about you," he said, even though he still would. "If you go back to Arkadia, I won't have to worry, and you'll get to live the life you deserve."

"And you'll live yours?" she said, voice quaking.

No, he wouldn't really live at all, but he'd pretend for now. "I turned down a movie for you, Clarke," he told her, "just so I could be with you. Now I won't have to do that anymore." God, he didn't care about some fucking movie, though. He didn't care.

"You . . ." She trailed off, her face a mask of confusion as she processed that. "You feel like I'm holding you back?" she said.

No. He felt like she'd pushed him forward.

"So you'll just go back to sleeping with random girls then, huh?"

He winced, wishing she wouldn't assume that he would do that. But he was being an ass right now, so he didn't really expect her to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Oh my god," she whispered in astonishment. "I can't believe this." Dazedly, she stumbled into the living room, having to hold onto the wall just to keep herself up.

"Maybe we should be grateful this is happening now and not later," he said. "I mean, imagine if we had a kid." He had a feeling he'd spend plenty of time imagining that once she left, imagining what their family would have been like, wondering if he'd ever even get to have one. "It's better to just end things now, before we get in any deeper with each other."

She grunted and said, "Don't you think we're already in pretty deep?"

 _The deepest,_ he thought. That was why this was so painful. "Not too deep to get out," he said. Maybe he'd be in this deep forever, but she didn't have to be. He could set her free, like her dad had said. She'd probably meet somebody else someday.

"I can't believe you want me to go back there," she said, sounding as if she were struggling for breath as the tears began to roll again. "I can't believe you don't love me enough." She wiped her smeared makeup from her eyes and turned her back to him, shoulders slumping, body shuddering as she wailed. It was so hard to just stand there and not even go to her. But that wasn't his job anymore.

While she cried, his eyes drifted to the closed cabinet beneath the sink. He quietly opened it up, and in there lay the check from her dad, the one he was never going to cash. One last nail in the coffin if he chose to use it. But it'd devastate her.

"I gotta start looking out for myself, too," he said, retrieving the check. He slid it across the counter, and slowly, she turned back around and looked.

"What is that?" she asked.

"See for yourself."

She came closer again, peering down at the check, frowning sadly as she looked at who it was made out to and who had written it. And the amount. The _insane_ amount that he hadn't even asked for.

"Your dad and I talked today," he said, but even though that wasn't a lie . . . other things had to be. He couldn't make her mad at her father, or else she wouldn't go home with him. He had to make her mad at him, as mad as possible. "I got him to pay me for doing this," he lied. "That's how badly he wants you to come home. He didn't wanna write the check, but . . . eventually, he did. 'cause he cares about you that much." Hopefully Jake would have the common sense to go along with this. Bellamy doubted he'd be anything but relieved that he'd managed to keep the true purpose of this check a secret.

"You got him to pay you?" she asked incredulously. "For breaking up with me?"

"I would've broken up with you anyway," he said, pushing aside the pain of lying to her, "but he didn't know that." Shrugging, he reasoned, "So yeah, I gotta look out for myself. You're not the only one who's gotta start over."

She gazed at him angrily, sorrowfully, disappointedly. It was like she was feeling everything at once. "Who are you?" she asked accusingly.

"Not your boyfriend," he answered quickly. "Not anymore." _Not your boyfriend,_ he repeated to himself. _Not anymore._

All the emotions she was feeling seemed to morph into anger as she practically tore the promise ring off her finger, threw it down on the floor, and slammed her foot down on it. Since it was such a cheap thing, he heard it break. "I hate you," she growled before grabbing her purse and storming out.

He grimaced as that door slammed shut. She hated him. Of course. But he still loved her.

Bending down, he picked up the remnants of that ring. It was in two pieces now, and the fake little blue gem had fallen out. Not fixable. Not in the slightest.

Sure that she wasn't coming back, he finally let himself break down and cry, too. Because so much of what he'd just said to her hadn't been true. But he had to let her think it was. It was worth having her hate him forever if she got to live a good, safe life without all this shit. It was gonna be worth it. But right now, he felt like he was dying, like breaking her heart had left his in shambles, too. And just like that ring, there would be no putting it back together again.


	69. Chapter 69

_Chapter 69_

Nothing felt real. Everything just felt like a bad dream, one Clarke desperately wanted to wake up from.

Feeling like she had nowhere to go—and remembering how her last emotional drive around town had ended up with her getting dragged into an alley—she drove over to her dad's hotel. Tears blurred her vision, and she had a close call at a red light. But she got there in one piece. Physically, at least. Emotionally was a whole different story.

Shuddering and shaking, she knocked on the door to her dad's room, hoping he was there and hadn't gone anywhere tonight. She needed someone to talk to, but she didn't have Harper there anymore. Niylah and Emori and Murphy were all probably working. And truth be told, even though they were her friends . . . she felt like a little girl who just needed her dad again. She felt pathetic.

"Clarke," he said after he pulled open the door. "What're you doing here?"

"I need a place to stay," she managed to get out.

"Come in," he said, holding the door open as she stumbled inside. "What happened?"

"You know what happened." She sat down on the bed, her whole body slumping forward. She literally felt weighed down by . . . everything. Just everything that she was feeling in that moment. "Bellamy broke up with me," she forced herself to say, just to try to deal with the unfathomable reality of it. She shot her dad a look and told him, "You can celebrate now."

He came towards her, sat down beside her, and actually sounded sympathetic when he said, "Clarke, I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," she said. "It's what you wanted."

He sighed heavily, then acknowledged, "I do think it's for the best."

How could it be, though? How could it _ever_ be for the best for her to not be with the man she loved? It didn't make any sense.

"I know how you feel about him, but some things aren't meant to last." Her dad tried to put his arm around her and said, "Come here, Clarke."

"No, just . . ." She shook his arm off, too worked up to be consoled. Besides, that twenty-thousand dollar check was still flashing through her mind. Her dad had known this was going to happen. But still . . . at least he was _trying_ to console her. That was a hell of a lot more than what Bellamy had done.

"He was so mean, Dad," she whimpered. "He said I was burden. He said he was tired of worrying about me."

Her father hesitated a moment, then empathized, "That must have hurt."

It'd hurt—and still did—worse than anything. Worse than finding out her parents were getting a divorce. Worse than finding out Finn had cheated on her. This . . . this was heartbreak at another level. "He said he doesn't wanna spend the rest of his life with me," she said, looking down at her barren ring finger, feeling like something was missing. Because something was. "I just feel _completely_ blindsided."

"You had no idea?" he asked, reaching over to rub her back.

"No," she cried. "I mean, I knew things had been a little weird lately, but . . ." She trailed off, figuring it was none of her dad's business that she and Bellamy had been arguing a bit lately, and that their sex life had kind of taken a downturn. That stuff was private. "You don't have to act like you're sad," she told him. "I know you're not."

"Like I said, I do think it's ultimately the right decision," he reaffirmed. "But that doesn't mean I don't feel bad for you."

She frowned, not sure she could even believe that. If he felt bad, then why had he agreed to pay Bellamy money? Clearly he wanted her to come home with him more than anything, and the only way to even get her considering that option was to get Bellamy out of the picture. "What did he say when he talked to you?" she asked him.

Her dad stopped rubbing her back and gave her a confused look. "What?"

"He said he talked to you about it." She wasn't going to let him sit there and play dumb. She wanted answers.

"We had some . . . discussions about what might be best for you, yes," her dad admitted.

"He thinks I should go back to Arkadia with you," she said. "Did you know that?"

Her father swallowed hard. "Yes."

God, how many 'discussions' had they had then? How long had Bellamy felt this way? It made her stomach knot up just thinking about it, just knowing she'd been so oblivious. "I asked him to come with me," she said. "He doesn't want to. He thinks it's better if he stays here and starts over." Narrowing her eyes, she growled, "With _your_ money."

Her father's eyes widened. "He showed you that?"

"Yeah. Real nice, by the way, buying me back." She snorted and shook her head in disgust. "I can't believe he'd ask you for money." Maybe she should have expected it, though. Her whole life in this town had involved people paying money for her.

"He . . ." Her father nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, "that was surprising."

"You didn't even have to pay him. He said he was gonna break up with me anyway. He just wanted to get something out of it for himself, I guess." She exhaled shakily, staring down at the floor forlornly, feeling like . . . like she didn't even know where to go from here. It wasn't just that she and Bellamy had been dating, but they lived together, too. He wasn't just her boyfriend; he was her closest friend. So him breaking up with her . . . it sort of stripped _everything_ away. "I feel like I don't even know him right now," she squeaked out, trying to picture him asking for _money_ in exchange for breaking up with her. How could this guy who was the love of her life be so cruel? They'd argued before, but he'd never hurt her like this.

"Well, you haven't really known him very long," her father pointed out. "A couple months."

"Eight months." That was plenty of time to get to know someone, to know someone . . . intimately. "I know him, Dad," she insisted. "I just didn't know . . . I didn't know he felt like this. I didn't know this was gonna happen."

"Don't blame yourself," her father urged.

"Then maybe I should blame you," she snarled, glaring at him. "You've been in his ear the whole time you've been here. You probably convinced him to-"

"I didn't convince him of anything," her father claimed. "Yes, we both worry about you. And we both think you'll be better off back home in Kansas. But I didn't _make_ him ends things with you."

Even if they had talked a lot, even if her dad had done his best to convince him . . . ultimately, the decision still had been Bellamy's, hadn't it? He could have told her dad to fuck off, and then they could have just been done with it. But he hadn't. So either he really didn't love her as much as she'd once thought, or he'd had a lot of doubts about their relationship for a long time. Maybe both. Maybe she'd been living in a fantasy world and he'd been living in reality. Maybe she was just an idiot.

"So what am I supposed to do now?" she wondered aloud, feeling as directionless as she had last summer, before she and Finn had committed to the decision of moving here.

"That's up to you," he said, reaching over to hold her hand. He wasn't saying it, but she could practically read his mind: _Come home with me._ That was what he was saying. And for the first time since he'd shown up there . . . she finally felt like considering it.

...

Bellamy stood out on the balcony, hunched over the railing, listening to the sounds coming from across the street. Whoever lived there was arguing. Loud, angry screams, and at one point, it even sounded like they were fighting, physically. Probably was the kind of fight somebody needed to call the cops on, and Bellamy probably would have if he hadn't felt so catatonic. Besides, he heard police sirens in the distance, gradually drawing closer. Eventually, a cop car pulled up outside the house, lights flashing, and two officers got out and shouted, "Police!" as the ran up to the front door and kicked it in.

This was the kind of place Clarke was getting out of. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. She could live a lot easier life back home in her small town. And that was what mattered.

When the drama across the street died down, he took out his phone and gave Jake a call. It'd been about forty-five minutes since Clarke had left. He needed to check in, see if she'd gone over there like he hoped. If she wasn't there, hopefully she'd gone to Niylah's or something. He just wanted to make sure he knew where she was, because the thought of her being out there by herself after what had happened last time . . .

"Hey, Bellamy," Jake answered after the third ring.

He didn't even bother with a 'hey' in return and instead blurted out, "Is she with you?"

"Yeah."

He breathed an inward sigh of relief. She was safe then. She probably wasn't happy, but she was with her dad, so nothing bad was gonna happen to her tonight. No one was gonna grab her and pull her into an alley and try to have their way with her. She'd be fine. "How is she?" he asked, wondering if she was still as devastated as she'd been when she'd walked out.

"Not so good," Jake answered honestly. "She's been in the bathroom crying for fifteen minutes. I think she just wants to be alone right now. But she's here, so that's good."

Bellamy gulped and nodded. Yep, it was . . . it was good.

Jake cleared his throat then, and spoke quietly when he said, "Listen, I wanted to thank you for your discretion, for not telling her I was the one to offer you that money. I think she would have resented me for that."

Bellamy clutched the railing of his balcony tightly with his free hand, wondering if that meant she'd resent _him_ forever now. He'd exaggerated so much of what he was saying, and he'd outright lied about that money. But if that was what it took for her to put her own best interest first for a change, then . . . well, then that was what it took.

"And I know this was hard for you," Jake went on, "so please, do feel free to cash it, use it to make things easier on yourself."

There wasn't a chance in hell he was ever using one penny of that money. No, he wasn't gonna sink that low. "I tore it up right after she left," he informed her father. It was in a dozen pieces in his trash can now.

"Suit yourself."

It was kind of telling, though, that Jake had resorted to money to try to get his way. It sort of left Bellamy with a bad feeling, so he felt compelled to add, "You can't just use your money to get what you want with her, though. You gotta build up your relationship with her again. You gotta be there for her. She's spent the past few months feeling like you're all about your new family now."

For a second, Jake didn't respond as he took that in, but eventually, he promised, "I'll make her my top priority." And really, that was all Bellamy wanted to hear. Because Clarke was currently _his_ top priority, and it was gonna be really hard to let go of that.

"Is she for sure going back with you?" he questioned.

"I think she will," Jake said, and even though he didn't say it was for sure, he sounded confident. She had to. Otherwise, all of this was for nothing.

"Tell her . . ." Bellamy paused, wishing there was a way he could tell her he loved her or would miss her, but he couldn't rely on Jake to tell her either of those things. Besides, since he'd gone and turned the jackass meter up to a maximum, she probably didn't wanna hear it right now anyway. "On second thought, don't tell her anything," he said, abruptly ending the call. He put his phone back in his pocket, let out a heavy, defeated sigh, and slumped forward over the railing again, listening to all the noise off in the distance, and all the noise inside his head.

...

When Clarke woke up the next morning, she had that moment. That moment that everyone had from time to time where, for a split second, everything felt okay. She hadn't been dreaming, but she actually _had_ slept, so it wasn't like she'd lain awake all night. But that feeling of okay-ness disappeared in an instant, like a light being switched off. There was just this internal click, and it was gone, and the reality sank back in again. Her mind flooded with the argument she'd had with Bellamy—no, not an argument. A break-up. Bellamy had actually _broken up_ with her.

She looked around, recognizing the interior of her dad's hotel room. It was a lot nicer than her bedroom, actually, the bed bigger and technically comfier. But it felt so strange not waking up next to Bellamy that she didn't have any desire to continue lying there any longer, so she sat up, rubbed her eyes, and blinked as she looked around.

Her father was asleep in the chair, his neck craned all the way to the right. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, but she wasn't about to disturb him. He'd probably waited until she had fallen asleep to do so himself, and from what she could recall, she'd been awake crying until at least midnight.

She moved the blankets aside, got out of bed, and quietly crept over to the door, where her shoes and her purse sat together on the floor. She slipped her feet into her sandals, slung her purse over her shoulder, and then cast one more look back at her dad before she carefully opened the door and slipped out. If he woke up and she wasn't there, he'd probably call and ask where she was. And once she told him, he'd probably say he would have gone with her. But no, this was something that was better for her to do alone.

She drove back home—if it could even be called that anymore—and trudged up the stairs to her apartment. Letting herself in felt strange, because she wasn't sure whether Bellamy was there or not. He had work, but maybe he just wasn't going anymore. Maybe he was as much of a mess as she was and just couldn't do much of anything today. Although, how could he be? She was the one who'd gotten her heart crushed; he was the one who'd done the crushing.

She heard the shower running, so it seemed like the perfect chance to get in the bedroom, grab some of her things, and get out. She wasted no time pulling the same big duffle bag she'd loaded up back home in Kansas out from underneath the bed and started shoving clothes in it. She emptied out her drawers, plus her half of the drawers they shared together, took some of her nicer clothes out of the closet, and discarded the hangers on the floor. She managed to get a couple more pairs of shoes, but she'd have to come back for those. It was a big bag, but it'd only hold so much.

"Clarke."

She whirled around when she heard his voice, and she was just _not_ ready to see him standing in the doorway with only a towel around his waist. His hair was wet and dripping, and his chest . . . well, she couldn't fixate too much on that right now.

"What're you doing?" he asked her.

"What does it look like?" she grumbled, turning back around so she could stuff everything as far down into the bag as it would go. "I can't stay here." She tried to zip it up, but it was too overstuffed, so it wouldn't slide shut.

"Where are you gonna go?" he questioned.

"I stayed with my dad last night. I mean, you want me to go home with him, so . . . I don't know, maybe I just will." Finally, she was able to pull the zipper shut, but it felt like it'd taken more effort than it should have. "God, this feels like a nightmare." She couldn't believe she was really doing this, but . . . what else was she supposed to do? She and Bellamy couldn't both live there if they weren't a couple anymore, and his old apartment next door had long been rented out to someone else. So one of them had to leave, and she was the only one who had somewhere else to go.

"I'm sorry," he apologized.

" _Don't_ . . ." Her hand shot up, and she trailed off as her fingers squeezed nothing but the air. She couldn't even look at him. Even being in the same room with him right now was painful, so any kind of conversation would be way too much. "Just don't say that." She hoisted the heavy bag over her shoulder, then waddled over to the corner of the room to grab her guitar. "I'll come back later for the rest of my stuff," she muttered, pushing past him on her way out of the bedroom. Part of her expected—maybe even naïvely hoped—that he wouldn't just let her leave this time, that he'd follow her out into that hallway and out into that parking lot if he needed to, even though he was just wearing a towel. But he didn't. Apparently he had no problem with her leaving, because he just let her do it.

...

Clarke wasn't sure what her dad hoped to accomplish by taking her out for lunch. She did need food, but she didn't feel like sitting outside at a café waiting for . . . whatever it was she'd ordered. She couldn't even remember. The conversation was awkward, because what else was there to talk about other than Bellamy? She got a reprieve when her father's phone rang, but even that was short-lived. Because of all the people who could have been calling, it was her mom. She sat there and listened while her dad relayed the cliffs notes version of what had happened last night. Even though her mom wasn't on speaker, Clarke could practically hear her responses in her head: _Oh, well, I saw this coming,_ was surely something she said, probably along with, _I knew that relationship wouldn't last._

"Yeah, she's sitting across from me right now. We're having lunch," her dad was saying as the waiter brought out their appetizers: mozzarella sticks that looked a little too crispy. "Oh, you wanna talk to her?"

Clarke adamantly shook her head.

"Uh, maybe you should try giving her a call later," her father suggested. That must have garnered an angry response, because he rolled his eyes. "Abby, just . . . Abby, she's not in the mood to talk right now. She had a rough night."

Clarke grunted at that understatement, picking up one of the mozzarella sticks to inspect the inside. Yep, just as she'd suspected, all the cheesy was virtually gone from the inside. It was just a shell of what it should have been.

"She'll be fine," her father said. "Just give her a call later. If she feels like talking then, she will." He frowned, then said, "Abby? Abby?" before putting his phone away. "She hung up on me."

 _What else is new?_ Clarke wondered. Most of her parents' phone calls these days ended up with one of them hanging up on the other. "I'm not even hungry," she mumbled, nudging the appetizers plate closer to him.

"You need to eat," he said, sliding it right back towards her. "Don't worry, it's on me."

Reluctantly, only because it'd been since yesterday afternoon since she'd taken a bite of anything, she grabbed the smallest mozzarella stick and took a bite. It was pretty disgusting, but she figured she could eat a few just to make him happy. "So does Mom want me to come home, too?" she asked him.

"Yes," he responded. "Everybody does."

"Everybody?" She really doubted that.

"Us, your friends."

"I don't have many friends back home anymore," she was quick to point out "Most of the people I went to high school with think I'm trash, thanks to Finn's video."

"Well, people thought I was scum for cheating on your mother," he reminded her. "Some of them even thought I'd made the choice to be gay. The things they said about me behind my back were . . . brutal."

"I remember." The things adults had said behind his back were often things their kids had said at school to her face.

"But it passed," he said. "And now people are getting to know the real me."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? This _was_ the real her. She wasn't some different person just because she'd moved across the country and gotten a job as a stripper. Her dad had been hiding a part of himself, a part that had always existed but he'd been too scared to reveal. She'd only been hiding her choices, but the girl who had made those choices was very much the same girl who'd been a cheerleader at every football game and who'd campaigned _hard_ to become student body president.

"All summer, Finn and I dreamt about getting out of that place," she reminisced, feeling like everything had been so simple back then. "We thought New York City was gonna be so great, and we were gonna have these great lives here. But the only great thing for me was Bellamy, and now that's gone, so . . ." She shrugged helplessly, feeling like she had nothing left now. In the span of less than a year, she'd lost not one but two boyfriends, the respect of everyone back home, and a lot of innocence.

"So there's nothing keeping you here then, is there?" her father pointedly asked her.

She looked away, wracking her brain for something, _anything_ she might have had going on there, anything that would have given her a reason to stay near Bellamy, just in case he changed his mind. But as much as she hated to admit it, her dad was right. Without him . . . there was nothing keeping her there.

...

Bellamy staggered into work . . . pretty late. Because seeing Clarke at the apartment this morning, and him just standing there like an idiot while she packed up her stuff . . . god, that sucked so much. And it'd made him feel like he couldn't do anything except sulk for a few hours. He hadn't even been sure he'd haul his ass in for work until he'd gotten a text from his boss demanding to know where he was.

When he showed up, he hadn't even gotten the chance to sit down before Randy blurted, "Boss wants to see you."

It was probably stupid to ask, "About what?" but he did anyway.

Randy glanced up from his computer just long enough to smarmily respond, "Oh, I'm sure it couldn't possibly be about the fact that you've shown up four hours late today."

"I had a rough night." He'd had a rough couple of nights, actually. But he didn't expect anyone else to care or understand.

"Drinking? Or partying?" Randy asked. "I mean, isn't that what guys like you do?"

 _Guys like me?_ Bellamy thought heatedly. What the hell did this Randy kid know about guys like him?

"Just face it: You're getting fired. You don't have what it takes to make it here."

Yeah, he knew that. He'd known it for a while. But getting his ass chewed out by his boss right now and getting fired was the last thing he needed to deal with. So he decided, "Well, I'll save everyone the trouble then. I quit," and just walked off the way he'd come in.

"Class act, Bellamy," Randy called after him, applauding sarcastically. "You're a class act."

 _Fuck you,_ Bellamy thought, resisting the urge to punch a wall on the way out.

He ended up at a bar not far away, one that he'd applied at after getting fired from Grounders. They'd hired someone else, apparently, some guy who didn't have the slightest clue what he was doing. Bellamy had to tell him how to make the drinks he wanted. Once he'd finally gotten the hang of it, he kept asking Bellamy, "You want another?" and Bellamy kept answering, "Sure." It took a lot to get him drunk, but he had a whole afternoon to kill now. Why not blow his last paycheck on alcohol?

Bars were depressing as hell in the afternoon, but that didn't stop some girl from coming and sitting down next to him. She had dark hair and was pretty, looked like she was in college or something. But he didn't even feel like paying her any attention at all.

"Hey," she said. "I'm Alison."

He just nodded, not even bothering to introduce himself.

"Are you here alone?" she asked.

"Yep." He was _so_ fucking alone right now, she had no idea.

"Buy me a drink?" she asked sweetly.

While he had to give her props for making the first move, it wasn't a move he could reciprocate. "Actually, I kinda just wanna stay alone," he told her.

"Oh." She looked let-down.

"Sorry." It wasn't her fault or anything. She was a nice-looking girl, and she was probably a lot sweeter than someone like Bree.

"This is embarrassing," she said, looking away. "I'm just gonna . . ." She motioned over her shoulder, then made a quick getaway.

"Sorry," he said again after she was gone. He just couldn't be with anyone else right now, maybe not ever. That was a sobering thought, but he had to confront the possibility. Clarke Griffin was the love of his life. There would never be another her. So he was gonna end up alone. Even if she didn't. Even if she found somebody new, which she probably would back in small town USA . . . he was gonna be hung up on her for the rest of his life. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Bellamy ended up staying out well into the evening, and he ended up getting smashed. Usually he could hold his liquor, but he ended up just drinking so much that he didn't even feel like it was a good idea to drive home. It was humiliating as hell, having to get the bartender to call him a cab the way he used to call a cab for some people at the club. But one came and got him, and he slept in the backseat until he was home.

"Thanks," he said, handing over the last cash in his wallet to pay the cab fare. It probably wasn't enough, but the driver didn't argue with him. (Really, was there any point in arguing with a drunk guy?) He shut the door and stumbled towards the building as it drove away. His stomach was starting to do backflips, though, and he couldn't make it up to his apartment. He _did_ manage to make it to the bushes, though, before he threw up. He just stood there afterwards, bent over, one hand wound around his stomach, worried he might throw up again.

"Wow."

 _Oh, shit._ He looked over at the entrance when he heard, of all people, Clarke. There she stood with a new duffle bag on her shoulder, as well as a large red suitcase. She stared at him in disbelief, and he hated to think what he must look like right now.

"And you think I'm the one who needs to be taken care of?" she said.

Yeah, he was a wreck right now, but at least _she_ seemed to be functioning. Of course, she seemed to have cleared out all the rest of her things, though, too. That suitcase was bulging, and the bag was too full to zip. "Did you get all your stuff?" he asked, taking a few steps towards her.

"Yeah," she said, glancing down at the overflowing bag. "You can keep the furniture. I won't need it when I go back home."

 _Home,_ he registered. That meant . . . "So you're really going?"

She glared at him. "Isn't that what you want?"

What he _wanted_ and what he thought she _needed_ were very different things. "It's for the best," he said, mostly to remind himself of that. He couldn't be selfish with her. This whole thing hurt like hell, but he couldn't be selfish.

"My dad and I are gonna drive home," she informed him. "We're leaving tomorrow afternoon."

He tensed. _Tomorrow?_ Already? This all felt like it was happening so fast now. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he'd just thought that maybe it might take her a few more days to agree to such a life-changing decision.

"Unless you give me a reason to stay," she added, and her glare turned into a different kind of look, almost a look of . . . pleading. She was _pleading_ with him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to say the words: "You should go."

Tears sprung to her eyes, but she blinked them back this time. Maybe she was done crying. "Is this really it?" she asked in astonishment. "After everything we've been through, this is just how it ends?"

It seemed that way. But it also didn't seem right. Eight months ago, this girl had appeared in the hallway next to him and had given him a ride to work, and nothing had been the same since then. Memories of nights spent in bed with her began to race through his mind, each one blurring into the next.

"This is how it ends," he confirmed, just because, if he didn't say it now, he probably never would.

That must have hurt, because she immediately looked away, probably to conceal some of the tears she couldn't hold back this time. Without saying anything else, she took her things and stepped down off the sidewalk.

 _Shit,_ he thought, watching her walk away. How the hell was he supposed to do this? Why couldn't he have gotten home just five minutes later? It would've sucked walking into the apartment and seeing all her stuff gone no matter what, but at least he wouldn't have had to watch _her_ go, too.

"Clarke, wait," he called after her, not really sure what he was doing.

Slowly, she turned around, her cheeks streaked with tears now. But unlike the character in the play they'd done together, she didn't run into his arms. Wasn't gonna happen. They weren't just gonna kiss and get their happy ending. This was it.

 _I love you,_ he thought. _I'll always love you._ He wanted to say the words so badly, but . . . he couldn't. It was like there was an invisible script in his head, and he was playing one of those asshole characters he'd never wanted to play. So he held it all back and muttered, "Never mind," instead.

She winced and turned away, like she'd been holding onto one last hope for something more than that. And those two words of his had crushed it. Crushed _her_.

He waited until she got her car loaded up, then went inside, pretending it _wasn't_ the worst feeling in the world to hear her drive away. But it was.

...

"This is all just happening so fast," Clarke mumbled as she halfway lay/halfway sat on the bed with her dad as he flipped through all the pointless channels on TV.

"I know it seems that way," he said, "but things like this don't just _happen_. Problems accumulate over time. That's what happened with me and your mom."

She frowned, immediately resentful of the comparison. "Bellamy and I aren't like you and mom."

"Well, maybe not," he acknowledged.

No, there was no _maybe_ about it. She and Bellamy had been in true, true love with each other, but her dad and her mom . . . they never really had been. They couldn't have been, not with him harboring such a secret the majority of their married lives.

"Isn't there anything you're looking forward to about moving back home?" he asked her. "Maya, Jasper, Monty . . . they're all there."

"They're in college," she pointed out. It wouldn't be like it was in high school. They wouldn't be hanging out all the time.

"We can get you enrolled in college now, too," he said. "Maybe not for the fall semester, but at least for the spring. You can work for me during the fall."

Sounded like he had her whole year planned out for her then. Part of her wanted to be angry with him about that, but . . . it was just his way of trying to be a good dad again. And she had to admit, having a plan and structure in place might not be so bad. "I guess college might be . . . something," she said, still not totally sold on it, though. "And my friend Harper moved there." That was probably the _only_ thing she was truly looking forward to, seeing her again. Because Harper was the one person in that town who knew her and wouldn't judge her for what she'd done in New York. She'd done it, too.

"See? It won't be so bad." Her dad put his arm around her, and for a second, she felt like a little girl again. She used to crawl into her parents' bed whenever she had a bad dream, and she'd usually ended up falling asleep there.

"Yeah, but I'm still leaving Bellamy," she said, her voice wavering when she said his name. "And I love him so much." She didn't feel like it was gonna fade over time, either, like it had with Finn. Finn had been a first love, but Bellamy Blake was the love of her life. There was no getting over someone like that.

"He broke up with you," her father reminded her. "He took money for breaking up with you. You won't always feel so much heartache over him. I promise."

Maybe it would get easier, even if her feelings for him never faded, but still . . . right now, she couldn't imagine _not_ feeling heartbroken. "What am I gonna do when I get home," she pondered, "just go back to living with Mom? And my soon-to-be stepdad Kane?" Yeah, that sounded real cozy.

"Thelonious and I have a spare room," her father mentioned. "You could come stay with us."

"And my soon-to-be stepbrother Wells?" Either way, she was going to be the outsider, honing in on someone else's happy little family.

"You'll like Wells," her dad assured her. "He's a good solid kid, has a bright future ahead of him."

"Brighter than mine, I'm sure." She didn't want to live with someone so close in age, someone who had all his shit together and had probably never messed up for one day in his life. She didn't want to be compared to him, and inevitably, she would be. "I'll probably just go back to Mom's house," she decided. "At least I'll have my room there. House I grew up in." She still wasn't Kane's biggest fan, but if he made her mom happy, then she supposed she could give him a chance. Living with him was gonna be weird, though. It was all gonna be weird.

She thought about her house, what had once been a very nice home, and she tried to picture every room in her mind. Would every piece of furniture be where she'd left it, or would Kane have rearranged some things? Had they repainted or remodeled anything? Was it all gonna be different?

"I thought Bellamy and I would have a house someday," she said, switching gears as she imagined what a place of theirs could have looked like. It would have been a lot smaller than the house she'd grown up in, for sure, but . . . they could have made it nice. "I thought we'd get married," she went on sadly, "maybe even have a couple kids." It seemed silly to even think about it now, though, when it was so obviously never gonna happen. Bellamy was done with her. He'd probably bring another girl back to their apartment tomorrow night. He'd get over her by getting someone underneath him.

"I have to go say goodbye to him before we leave tomorrow, Dad," she said, hating herself for her own inability to just let it end where it did. "I have to." Their brief exchange in the parking lot tonight just didn't cut it. Bellamy was so drunk, he might not even remember seeing her there. Even though it wasn't gonna change anything or bridge the chasm that had formed between them in the last day's time . . . she still had to go say goodbye.

...

When he woke up, Bellamy felt . . . pretty hungover. He wasn't even sure why he'd bothered to open his eyes until he realized his phone was ringing. He sat up way too fast and reached over to grab it, stupidly thinking that, for some reason, it might be Clarke. But it was his sister's nickname on the screen instead.

"Hey," he answered, barely able to scrape the word out. He had to clear his throat.

"Bellamy?"

"Yeah?" Why was she saying his name like that? She sounded . . . upset or something. Immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

It took her a moment, a moment in which he could hear her crying, to say, "It's Mom."

 _Mom?_ He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I found her," she cried. "I found her, Bell!"

"Wait, _found_ her?" His head felt like it was spinning. He didn't—he didn't know what she meant. "Found her where, O? What's going on?"

For several seconds, she just sobbed, but when she finally did answer, it was something he'd always dreaded hearing, but somehow always expected: "Mom's dead."

He sat there in stunned silence, holding his phone up to his ear, not able to say anything. His little sister kept crying, and all he could do was sit there and take that in. His mom . . . was dead.

His mom was _dead_?


	70. Chapter 70

_Chapter 70_

Clarke was more than content to be the passenger on the long drive home. Sure, they had miles upon miles of open interstate ahead of them, especially when they got to the Midwest, so the drive wasn't difficult. But she didn't feel like being the one behind the wheel. Her focus, her concentration, was elsewhere. So it was probably better that her dad had volunteered to drive.

Much to her relief, he didn't question her desire to go see Bellamy one last time, to say goodbye to him. It was just something she needed to do. She didn't want her last interaction with him to involve him puking in the bushes like he'd been doing last night.

"It's a bit of a long drive home," her father noted after they'd left the hotel and were driving over to the apartment.

"I remember," she said, thinking back to the night she and Finn had left Arkadia. Everything had been so _different_ back then. _She_ had been different. Not necessarily better or worse, just . . . not completely the same.

"We'll stop somewhere overnight," her dad said. "A nice hotel."

Of course it'd be a nice hotel. He had money again, money even her Girl Next Door persona hadn't been able to acquire in this city. "Finn and I made the drive in one straight shot," she recalled. "We were so eager to get out here." She wondered what would become of him, if he'd continue down the path Cage had laid out for him, or if he'd become a better man someday. As angry as she was for what he'd done to her, she didn't want him to suffer forever. She wanted him to get his life on track, too.

Looking over at her dad, she noticed that his brows were furrowed, wrinkle lines appearing on his forehead. She wondered if he was concerned that she would decide to stay at last minute, or that Bellamy would say something to convince her to stay. Or maybe her talking about how she'd come here with Finn brought back some unpleasant memories. She hadn't even said goodbye to him, not like she was about to say goodbye to Bellamy.

"I bet you're eager to get home," she remarked. "Do you miss Thelonious?"

"I do," he admitted as he turned the corner onto her street. "It'll be good to see him again."

As much as she was still wary of her father's relationship with Thelonious Jaha, she had to admit that it seemed like they were in deep, deep love. And he'd ended up staying in New York for almost double the time he'd intended, all because of her. Being apart from him had to have sucked.

"You should really get to know him," her father suggested. "I think you'll like him."

The prospect of getting to know her dad's boyfriend was . . . daunting. Emotionally, she wasn't sure she was ready for it yet. But once she got back to Arkadia, it was inevitable that it would happen. He'd end up being her stepfather someday, and Wells would be her stepbrother, and Marcus Kane would be her _other_ stepfather, so . . .

When they got to her apartment—or her _former_ apartment, technically, since she'd gotten off the lease—she felt her stomach twist into knots. Bellamy's car was parked a few spaces down, so he was definitely home. And that meant . . . this was it. This was definitely it.

"I'll try to make this quick," she said as she got out of the car.

"Take as long as you need."

It was really nice that he was being supportive, even though he probably wanted to just get out of that city more than anything right now. He'd come to New York thinking that he'd just pop in and visit her, see how she was doing, and he'd ended up walking in on her up onstage at a strip club. And he'd ended up at the police station with her, listening to her recount the most horrifying, disgusting thing that had ever happened to her in her life. He'd ended up having to console her after Bellamy had broken up with her. The past couple of weeks had to have been rough on him, too.

It felt so strange heading up to her apartment—well, just _his_ apartment now. As she dazedly walked down the hall, she wondered if he would stay there. The rent was higher than his studio apartment next door had been, and now he was going to have to afford it alone. What was gonna happen to him? Was he gonna have to move out and sleep in his car? Was he going to find some temporary girlfriend to go crash with? Was he gonna go back to being a bartender somewhere? Was he gonna start smoking again? Was he gonna . . . be okay?

"Bellamy?" she called quietly when she let herself in. She still had her key, which she planned on giving to him. In case he wanted to give it to . . . some other girl, which was a bitter thought. "Are you here?" The apartment was quiet, and he didn't respond, so she headed down the hall towards the bedroom. When she pushed open the door, she found him sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, staring straight ahead at the wall, looking almost . . . catatonic.

"Hey," she said, expecting him to at least look at her. But he didn't even do that. "I know this is pointless, but . . . I just needed to come say goodbye," she said, feeling all sorts of awkward.

He still didn't even look up at her, and he didn't say anything, either. When she studied him closer, she noticed tears in his eyes, and a few stained on his cheeks. "What's wrong?" she asked, immediately worried. Because he couldn't have been crying like that over her, right? It'd been his decision to break up.

Since he still didn't respond, she went into the room and sat down next to him on the floor. "Bellamy. Are you okay?"

That look on his face . . . it _wasn't_ okay.

"Say something." He looked like he'd just been hit by a train or something. He didn't look like himself at all.

When he finally _did_ scrape some words out, he said them almost simply, though they were anything but simple: "My mom died."

Her eyes widened in horror as she registered what he'd just said. "What?" His mom? She was . . . she was _dead_? Since when? Was that why he'd been so drunk last night?

"Octavia called me this morning," he revealed. "She walked downstairs and found her dead on the couch."

Clarke had never even seen a picture of Bellamy's mom, so she didn't even have a mental image of the woman, but still . . . she thought of Octavia going downstairs to find the dead body of someone who probably looked very much like her, and . . . "Oh my god." She didn't even know what to say.

"Overdose," he mumbled dejectedly. Almost as if he'd always expected it.

Every conversation she'd listened to him have on the phone with Octavia came flooding back. All the concern he'd felt about his mom possibly drinking again, staying out all night with someone who'd probably enabled her addictions . . . it made tears sting _her_ eyes even though she hadn't known the woman at all. "Bellamy, I'm so sorry," she said, wishing she'd been less selfish with him, wishing she'd done something like encourage him to go home and check on her. Maybe she could have even gone with him.

Bellamy just sat there, still out of it, obviously still processing. He wasn't crying anymore, but he was still so clearly _sad_. And it had to be confusing for him, because he and his mom had never been close. But still, she was his _mom_ , and he'd never been shy about admitting that he loved her a lot.

She sat with Bellamy for about twenty minutes, not really saying a whole lot unless he said something first. He told her that Octavia had called him right after the paramedics had shown up. They'd tried to revive her at the house, but it'd been too late. She was 'cold' as they'd phrased it. It sounded so clinical. He went on to say he was worried about Octavia, but she'd told him Ilian was on his way over. She tried to reassure him that she'd be taken care of, that she wouldn't be alone, but it seemed to be of little comfort to him.

When he finally got up off the floor, he announced that he was going to take a shower, and she used that time to go back downstairs and had out to the parking lot to talk to her dad. She sat down in the passenger's seat and told him about what had happened and why she was taking so long, and he sympathized completely. He'd lost his mom when he'd been young, too, so he knew what it felt like.

"Oh, that's awful," he said. "I feel bad for him."

"Yeah." She couldn't only imagine losing a parent— _really_ losing them like that. Because it'd been horrible enough just becoming estranged from her mom and dad. The thought of one of them dying hurt so much. And Bellamy didn't have another parent, either. "He's taking it pretty hard," she said, suspecting that he wouldn't cry much, but whatever he was feeling, whatever complex mix of emotions . . . . he'd feel them _deeply_.

"Well, my heart goes out to him," her father said. "Were they close?"

They definitely hadn't been, but that wasn't Bellamy's fault. "Not really, but . . . it's his mom," she said. "And they don't know whether it was an accident or if she . . ." She trailed off, not quite able to say the words.

"Committed suicide?" her dad filled in. "They might never know."

That was definitely true, and a horrible truth at that. But based on what Clarke had learned of Aurora Blake . . . it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that she'd intentionally taken her own life, and that made the whole thing even worse.

"Well, I feel horrible for him, and for his sister," her dad said. "I wish there was something we could do."

That was the thing, though. Clarke couldn't help but feel like . . . like there _was_ something more she could do. Something more than just sitting around feeling bad him.

She must have gotten some kind of tell-tale look on her face, because her dad sternly said, "Clarke," and shook his head. "I know you're worried about him, but you're not his girlfriend anymore. It's not your job to help him through this."

Yeah, she knew that. She _really_ knew that. But being there for someone she still loved, someone she would always love . . . that wasn't a _job._ That wasn't something she felt like she _had_ to do. "Dad, I can't . . . I can't just leave him here right now and make him deal with this on his own," she said, worried about how _he_ might spiral if she left him alone right now. Bellamy wasn't an alcoholic or a drug addict or anything like this mom, but . . . well, it'd taken a tragedy to set her on that path. What if this tragedy did the same to him?

"He has his own family to help him through this," her father reminded her.

"No, he doesn't." Bellamy never talked about aunts or uncles or cousins or grandparents. He probably had some, but he wasn't close to them. "It's him and his sister, and that's pretty much it," she said.

Her dad sighed impatiently and concluded, "So now you wanna stay."

It wasn't so much that, but rather . . . she didn't wanna go.

"I can't stay out here, Clarke," he said. "I'm sorry, but I have a life and a job and responsibilities back home. I mean, maybe we could wait one more day, but . . ."

This was going to take more than one day, though. Making sure that Bellamy was going to be okay . . . it wasn't something she could accomplish in twenty-four hours. "Look, you should just . . . you should just go," she suggested. "Take my car, take most of my stuff. I can find my own way home a few days from now."

"Your own way home?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"

"I can catch a flight or . . . I don't know, maybe a bus or something." They didn't _have_ to return to Arkadia together. She could get there on her own.

"I am not going to be having my daughter traveling home by herself on a bus," her dad said adamantly. "Now you can call him and check up on him while we drive, but we need to go."

No. She needed to stay. "Dad, I know he and I aren't getting back together now," she said. Truth be told, she wasn't even thinking about anything of the sort. "I know that. So I'm still coming home, but . . ." She glanced back at the apartment complex, three floors up, and thought about him, about how he must have been standing in that shower feeling like his whole world had come crashing down. And her heart just _ached_ for him. "I can't leave him right now," she said, feeling like she'd never forgive himself if she made the hardest experience of his life even worse. "He needs someone."

Her dad clamped his hand down on her shoulder and said, "You are _not_ obligated to be that someone."

This had nothing to do with obligation, though. Didn't he get that? Or . . . could he? After her mom had gotten pregnant, he'd stayed with her for eighteen years out of obligation. But this wasn't anything like that. "I wanna be," she said, knowing that Bellamy didn't have a whole lot of other someones. Octavia couldn't be that person for him, because she was going through the same thing, and she was younger and would need her big brother. His friends couldn't be that person, because he didn't let them in close enough. She _was_ that person for him, just like he'd been for her ever since she'd moved there. It was her turn to look after him now.

"Please, I need you to trust me," she begged her dad. "I need you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

That look on his face was _so_ wary, _so_ skeptical, but she wasn't really leaving him a choice. Either he trusted her and let her stay with Bellamy for a few more days, or he didn't, and any hope of a mutually supportive father/daughter relationship moving forward was pretty much gone. She'd made up her mind, and now she needed him to respect that.

...

It'd taken Clarke a while to convince her dad to leave without her. He sat in that car and agonized over the decision for what felt like an eternity. She didn't want things between them to be on bad terms when she got home, though, so she tried to be as patient and understanding with him as possible. Despite his repeated attempts at getting her to come with him, she wasn't budging. She was one-hundred percent set in her decision to stay with Bellamy, just for a few more days, just to make sure he was going to be okay. Nothing was changing her mind. Once he finally accepted that, her dad made her promise to call him and keep him informed about how things were going each day. He reiterated time and time again that it'd be best for her to still come home sooner rather than later. And he made sure to remind her over and over that she wasn't Bellamy's girlfriend anymore, that he'd broken up with her, that he'd even taken money in exchange for breaking up with her. She did a lot of nodding in agreement and saying, "I know," and "I remember."

But eventually, he did leave. She took one of her bags out of the car and stood there on the sidewalk, watching him drive off in her car, even though it was so obvious that he hated doing it. He hated leaving her there, but he'd accepted that he couldn't change her mind. It was actually . . . kind of refreshing. It was nice knowing that her dad did at least still have some sort of lingering trust in her decision-making, despite some of the bad decisions she'd made in the past year.

When he was gone, she hurried back upstairs, hoping that Bellamy wouldn't assume she'd just bailed on him. She walked back inside, bag slung over her shoulder, and found him talking to someone on the phone. "Okay," he was saying. "Yeah. Yeah, I can be there. Thanks." He ended the call and set his phone down on the counter, sighing heavily. It took him a moment to look over and see her standing there. "Hey," he said, sounding a bit surprised. Maybe he really had expected that she'd just gone.

"Hey," she echoed, setting her bag down. Slowly, she made her way towards him and asked, "Who was that?"

"My aunt," he replied. "Mom's sister."

She cocked her head to the side curiously. So Bellamy _did_ have extended family then. It wasn't really just him and Octavia left to fend for themselves.

"I haven't seen her or talked to her in years," he went on. "She lives in Florida, but she's flyin' back to Louisiana to take care of all the . . . funeral arrangements." He gulped, looking down at the floor after he said those words. "I'd do it myself, but that's kinda hard to do from here."

She nodded. That was good, though, wasn't it, that he _didn't_ have to worry about that? There was another adult who could handle that. It wasn't up to him. "How's Octavia?" she asked, thinking that this might be even harder on her since she'd been the one to discover her mom's body and all.

"A mess," he answered. "She's with Ilian and his family right now."

"That's good." He didn't have to worry about her, either, then. Even though he still would. "Any update on . . . what happened?"

"No." He leaned back against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. "All the warning signs were there, though. We knew she'd relapsed." He shook his head regretfully, muttering, "I should've done something more. I should've gone home, tried to help her."

She took a step closer and said, "No, don't blame yourself."

"Why not?" He shrugged sadly. "It's my fault. I'm the thing that screwed her up."

Oh god, she felt _so_ bad for him. That wasn't a new feeling for him, either. He'd gone his whole life thinking that, and it wasn't fair. "No, you're not," she argued. "Whoever raped her screwed up her life. You're just as innocent in that as she was."

He thought about it for a moment, and his eyes became glossy with tears as he did. He blinked them back, though, and again swallowed hard. "I know she never loved me," he said, "but . . . she didn't _have_ to let me be born. She could've gotten rid of me." He sighed heavily, his whole body just slumping downward, and he said, "So I loved her. And I thought she loved Octavia, but . . . I don't know, apparently she still loved drugs more."

So badly, she wanted to reach out and touch him. Just a soft, simple touch, like a hand on his arm or his shoulder. Nothing major. But she didn't feel like she could do that, so talking to him was going to have to suffice. "I'm sorry," she said, wishing there was something better she could say, something to make this easier on him.

He finally looked at her then, _really_ looked at her for the first time since she'd shown up, and blinked in confusion. "Aren't you supposed to be leaving?" he asked. "Your dad's probably waiting."

She bit her bottom lip, hesitant to tell him he'd already gone and she hadn't left with him, because she didn't want him feeling guilty for that, too. But she had to be honest with him, so she explained, "My dad's gonna head home without me. I'll go in a couple days."

He frowned, sort of a surprised frown, and said, "You don't have to stay with me. I'll be alright."

She shook her head, not about to do that, not about to leave. "You shouldn't have to do this alone," she said, feeling completely confident in her decision to stay. He'd never left her alone to deal with any of life's challenges. So she wasn't gonna leave him.

...

Pretty much all day, Bellamy was in a fog. He spent a lot of time on the phone with Octavia, and she couldn't seem to stop crying. She kept saying she was okay, but she kept crying. So she wasn't okay then, was she? She couldn't be.

People back home who he hadn't even talked to for over five years were suddenly calling and texting him to express their condolences. People from high school. Neighbors. Old teachers. Most of them probably had a pretty low opinion of his mom, but for whatever reason, they didn't have a low opinion of him by extension. So they all said they were so sorry.

He was pretty thankful to have Clarke there. He didn't really say it, because he didn't want to lead her on or make her think that they could just get back together now, but he was _really_ glad she hadn't left with her dad today. While he was on the phone, one conversation right after another, she made him lunch, and then later she made him dinner. She did some cleaning, and she hummed lightly while she did so. Her voice was . . . soothing. It made him feel a little better.

That night, she'd fallen asleep on the couch, and he made sure to drape a blanket over her. He was tired, too, but he didn't feel like he'd be able to fall asleep with everything that was going on. Not only had this news about his mom crushed his heart today, but . . . it'd made his mind start racing, too. He was thinking about things, a lot of things. And he couldn't stop.

 _Update?_ he texted Ilian as he sat in the kitchen, his hand on his forehead as he tried to ease the dull ache inside his skull.

A minute later, Ilian texted back, _She's finally asleep._

He breathed a small sigh of relief. Good. That was good. Octavia had to have worn herself out today with all the crying. Now she could get some rest, and maybe somehow she'd feel better tomorrow.

 _Tomorrow,_ he thought, gulping. The prospect had to seem so fucking daunting for her. She hadn't even turned eighteen yet. She wasn't an adult. And yet here she was now, one girl with no family close to her, other than her boyfriend and _his_ family. She was supposed to be going to college in a couple months, but what if she backed out on that now? What if all of this was too traumatic for her, or too stressful or . . . just too much? He worried that she'd throw away her opportunities now, just because she wasn't sure how she could still have them.

His stomach tightened at the thought, because he couldn't bear to imagine Octavia _not_ going to college and _not_ getting the chance to become someone really successful. Sure, she had Ilian, and Ilian could _probably_ still convince her to go, but . . . what if he couldn't? What if it took something more?

As he sat there in the dark, thinking about so many things, _worrying_ about so many things . . . a feeling washed over him. Not exactly a resigned feeling, but . . . he just felt like he knew what he needed to do. For once. And he needed to tell someone about it, so he swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "Clarke?"

She must not have been sleeping very deeply, because she opened her eyes and sat up quickly. "What?" she said. "Are you okay?"

No, he wasn't. But tomorrow, he'd be better. Because now he knew what had to be done. "I don't think I should stay here anymore," he blurted, and it felt weird enough to think about, let alone to say out loud.

She got up off the couch and came towards him. "What do you mean?"

"I think I should move back home," he said, wondering how different the house looked from the last time he'd seen it. It'd been so many years since he'd been there. But Octavia had assured him that his room was still his room, so it'd probably all still feel familiar. "My sister needs me," he said, "and . . . it's not like I'm doing anything great here anyway." There was no point in staying in the big city when he hadn't gotten his big break as an actor in the big city. And even if he had, this stuff back home was just more important. "It's time," he decided. "I'll go home for the funeral, and then I'll just stay there."

"Are you sure?" Clarke asked.

"Yeah." He'd thought about it a lot today, actually. If Clarke was going home to Arkadia, what was stopping him from going home to Trikru? Nothing. "I think it's for the best."

She thought about it for a moment, then slowly nodded in agreement. He thought she might question him about it some more, but instead, she surprised him by offering, "I can go with you."

 _With me?_ he thought, feeling hopeful for the first time that day. She wanted to go to Trikru with him?

"For the funeral, I mean," she clarified. "If you feel like you need someone."

He wanted to be stronger than that, strong enough to deal with his own problems on his own and to just set her free from him. But right now, with everything he was feeling . . . oh, yeah. He needed someone. "Okay," he said, feeling a little less intimated by the thought of attending his mom's funeral if Clarke was there beside him.

"Okay," she echoed, smiling at him through the dark. Sort of just a supportive smile, a small one. But it made him feel better. Just having her there . . . made him feel better.

...

Clarke basically only got a nap that night. After Bellamy woke her up and told her he wanted to go home, she mostly stayed up with him and helped him figure out the logistics of that. His mom's funeral would probably be in a couple days. It couldn't wait that long. So either he somehow found enough money for a flight, or he packed everything up in record time and drove. According to Google Maps, it only took a little longer to get to Trikru than it did to get to Arkadia. They could make one long drive there like she and Finn had made here. They could take turns at the wheel and be there in under twenty-four hours as long as they didn't stop too long at any one place.

That morning, he got a phone call from his aunt letting him know that the funeral was scheduled for Friday morning. That gave them about forty-eight hours to get gone. Bellamy was a pretty light packer. He said he'd take what he needed and leave other shit behind. She suggested that they at least find someone who could take the bigger items, so she called up Emori and Murphy and told them to come over. Murphy's eyes lit up when he found out Bellamy wanted to get rid of all that furniture. It was like he'd hit the jackpot.

"You guys sure you wanna give all this stuff up?" he asked as he practically ransacked the apartment, collecting anything that caught his eye.

"Yeah," Clarke said. "Anything you don't want, we can just bring to the thrift store." Someone somewhere would get use out of their things.

"Oh, we want a lot of it," Murphy assured her. "You should see our apartment. Our couch is a beanbag."

"Yeah, this couch is pretty good," Bellamy said, sitting down on the arm of it. "The bed, too . . ." He exchanged a quick look with Clarke, one in which she couldn't help but remember everything they'd done together in that bed. Judging by the look on his face, he was remembering the same thing. "The bed's pretty good," he mumbled, looking away.

"So let me get this straight," Murphy said as he carried a lamp and some throw pillows towards the door to pile them up with all the other supplies he was taking. "You're leaving town," he said, pointing at Clarke, then at Bellamy as he said, "and _you're_ leaving town, too, but you guys aren't leaving together?" He made a face.

"No," Clarke said. "Well, we're both going to Louisiana for . . . for the funeral. But then after that I'm going home." She'd have to have someone come get her, or have her dad pay for a flight, because really, the idea of hopping on a bus wasn't appealing.

"What happened?" Murphy asked. When neither of them volunteered an answer, he waved it off and said, "Never mind, it's none of my business."

Emori came out of the bedroom with some of Bellamy's clothes, ones that he didn't have room to pack, draped over her arm. "Sorry about your mom, Bellamy," she said, even though she'd already said that the minute she and Murphy had shown up.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm gonna call Miller, see if he can help us haul some of this stuff out." He whipped his phone out of his pocket, dialing with one hand bent down to pick up some of the things in Murphy's pile of goods on his way out the door.

When he was gone, Emori asked, "Clarke, what's going on?"

"He's barely slept," she said. "Yesterday was really hard on him."

"No, I mean . . . with you guys," Emori clarified. "Since when are you not together?"

In the chaos of the past few days, it hadn't even dawned on her that their friends didn't know they were no longer dating.

"Yeah, we were gonna make you the baby's godparents," Murphy said. "What the hell's goin' on?"

 _Godparents?_ she thought wistfully. That would have been nice. Getting to babysit Murphy and Emori's son or daughter would have given them lots of practice before they someday . . . well, that wasn't gonna happen anymore.

"We broke up," she said, skipping over all the reasons why, because now just wasn't the time to get into it, and she didn't feel like rehashing it for anyone. "It's a long story. I can't even really think about it right now." She looked at the door he'd just walked out of, wondering what it was going to be like for him to walk out for good, to walk away from this whole town when it'd been his home for the past five years. "I just wanna help him through this," she said, hoping the town of Trikru would welcome him back after he'd been gone for so long. At least one of them deserved a warm welcome home.

...

Miller came over to help out with all the furniture, and thankfully, Miller's boyfriend was one of about five people in the entire city who actually owned a functional pickup truck. So they were able to load the bigger items into the back of that and make a couple of trips back and forth. Murphy and Emori's place was only about fifteen minutes away, so the whole process went pretty fast. In the middle of it, Bellamy got a text from Clarke's father sending his condolences about what had happened. He texted back a quick thanks, but he couldn't help but feel like the whole 'sorry-to-hear-about-your-mom' thing came with an invisible 'make-sure-Clarke-still-heads-home' attached.

It was early evening by the time they loaded up the last of the items in the backseat of Murphy's beat-up car. Murphy took a cigarette break before leaving, and Clarke urged him to quit the second she saw him light up.

"I will," he promised, "once the baby's born."

Emori rolled her eyes as though she didn't believe that, then hugged Clarke and said, "Thanks for everything, you guys. We really needed this."

"No problem," Bellamy muttered. He didn't need any of this back home. He had a house to go to, one that had been in his mom's family for generations. It was a fixer-upper, but maybe he could work on it a little bit this summer.

"Good luck back in Kansas," Murphy told Clarke as he put out his cigarette on the sidewalk.

"Thanks," she said. "Will you tell Niylah I said goodbye? And Anya, I guess."

"Sure." He turned to Bellamy then, shrugged, and said, "It's been real, man."

Bellamy managed to crack a smile. Yeah, this kid had been a good guy to work with, and he'd actually become a real friend over the years. Real friends were hard to find in this town. "Good luck with . . . everything," he said. Murphy had a lot of extra responsibility coming his way in the next few months.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need it." Murphy first extended his hand for a shake, but that felt awkward to both of them, so they ended up moving in for a bro-hug. Very manly, not at all sentimental. But Bellamy had to admit, he was actually gonna miss the guy.

When they left, only Miller remained, and since Bellamy had known him longer, it seemed fitting that he'd be the last friend he said goodbye to. Clarke seemed to sense that they needed a moment, because she said, "I'll be upstairs," and slipped inside.

Bellamy thought back to what it had been like being just a young kid in this city, going to auditions with Miller, even acting with him at one time. But Miller had moved on from that now and had a college education going, so . . . it was time for him to move on, too.

"So this is it, huh?" his friend said. "Done with the city?"

"I'm done," he confirmed. "Have to be." The decision probably seemed fast, but really . . . it'd been a long time coming. He hadn't had any opportunities there for a while.

"I get it," Miller said understandingly. "Hey, maybe moving back home will be good for you."

 _Maybe,_ Bellamy thought. There were definite upsides, like living in a house instead of an apartment, and mainly being closer to Octavia. But the fact that this whole decision had been brought on by his mom's death . . . that wasn't easy.

"For what it's worth, though, if it's worth anything . . ." Miller said leadingly, ". . . in all these years that I've known you, I've never seen you happier than you were with Clarke."

Bellamy felt his chest tighten just at the mention of her. He'd been around her all day, but they'd been busy. Now that they weren't . . . it hurt to think about her, about how he'd lost her, too.

"I don't know what went down between you guys," Miller said, "but I still think you're gonna end up together."

 _Wishful thinking,_ Bellamy thought morosely. He'd given her up, because he knew deep down in his heart that it was the right, unselfish thing to do. The fact that she even cared enough about him to help him through all of this after _everything_ he'd said to her . . . it spoke volumes about what an amazing girl she was, and how lucky he was to have had her in his life.

"No, this is just . . . this is temporary," he insisted, not willing to let himself get his hopes up. "She's just helping me out."

"You still love her, though, right?" Miller asked. But it was almost more of a statement than a question.

Well, there was no denying that. "Yeah." Of course he still loved her. He always would.

"Then that's all that matters."

Bellamy sighed. Miller made it sound so simple. But it wasn't that simple, and that wasn't all that mattered. Clarke's whole life mattered, and her dad could give her a better, easier one. Back in Arkadia. Away from him.

After he said goodbye to Miller, he sulked back inside, to the apartment that was his for one more night. His landlord had been surprisingly understanding about the whole thing and was only charging him the rest of the month's rent, not the three additional months on the lease. He seemed confident that he could get the apartment rented out quickly. There was always somebody in need of 'cheap housing,' as he phrased it.

It was strange to see the place so empty, but it also made everything seem very . . . final. It was happening quickly that he was moving away from the city he'd called home for the past five years, but it was definitely for the best.

He found Clarke in the bedroom, using a sweatshirt from inside his suitcase as a pillow. She lay on her side right where their bed used to be, with her eyes closed; but she opened them when she heard him come in. "I'm exhausted," she groaned.

"Yeah," he agreed. With Emori not able to do any heavy-lifting, Clarke had more than done her fair share today.

He lay down beside her, right there on the floor, keeping a little more space between the two of them than he would have if they'd been in bed together. And if they hadn't broken up. He didn't want to get too close, because it'd be too tempting.

"Maybe we could just get a little sleep before we hit the road?" she suggested tiredly, her eyes falling shut again.

The floor wasn't particularly comfortable, but it would do for at least a couple of hours. "Sure," he said, already deciding that he'd take the first round at the wheel. Once Clarke got some rest, then he'd let her drive. But not before then.

He looked over and watched her fall asleep before he let himself do the same.


	71. Chapter 71

_Chapter 71_

Clarke wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep, but it definitely didn't feel like very long. Regardless, she heard the steady pitter-patter of rain on the window, and it was enough to wake her up.

It took her a second to remember why she was so stiff and uncomfortable: because she wasn't in a bed. Fitting. Her first night in that apartment had been spent in a sleeping bag with Finn. Now she was on the floor with Bellamy.

She sat up and looked down at him. He was still flat on his back, and one arm was up above his head, the other on his stomach. His mouth was gently parted, and he was snoring lightly, like he often did.

 _Maybe I should just let him sleep,_ she pondered. He'd barely gotten any sleep last night, and obviously recent events had taken an emotional toll on him. He probably needed to rest, and truth be told, she still felt tired, too.

She reached over to her purse, pulled out her phone, and saw about a dozen text messages from her dad. Ignoring them all for the time being, she focused only on the time. Just a little after midnight. They'd only been asleep for about five hours.

It was tempting to set the alarm for 2:00 a.m. or 3:00, but in the back of her mind was the reminder that it would take almost a full day to drive to Trikru, Louisiana. Bellamy had warned her that, if they encountered a traffic jam or construction or even just really slow rush hour traffic, it could take even longer. There was no way she could allow him to risk showing up late to his mom's own funeral, so if they were gonna leave, it was better to leave now and give themselves plenty of time.

"Bellamy?" she said, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge.

He jolted a bit and opened his eyes quickly.

"You ready to go?" she asked, feeling like she was okay to drive if he needed more sleep. She wasn't as good with directions and all that, but as long as she had GPS going, then she'd be fine.

Fifteen minutes and two energy drinks later, they were out of there. Bellamy piled his bags in the trunk and backseat, and she set hers on the floor beneath her feet. He insisted on taking the wheel, even though she offered, and they didn't really waste any time saying goodbye to the place. Sure, they'd had some good times in that apartment, but it was just a place. A place she'd never even meant to live in that long. Honestly, had Bellamy not been her neighbor, she probably would have pressured Finn into renting a nicer unit in some other complex. But . . . well, she was _really_ glad Bellamy had been her neighbor.

As they drove through the city, she _saw_ so many of the sounds she'd grown accustomed to hearing at night. Police cars with their flashing red and blue lights were pulled up outside of houses just a few blocks away. She saw both men and women being hauled out in handcuffs, somehow still yelling at each other even though they were getting arrested for their disputes. She noticed women on street corners, one of whom looked disturbing similar to Roma and one of whom looked a lot like Vivian. But it was too dark to see their faces, so she chose to believe that the women she'd once worked with were somewhere else and that they were doing okay. Because anything else just _hurt_ to consider.

And they drove past Grounders, where the poster of the Girl Next Door no longer was displayed in the window. The club was up and running, though, neon lights full aglow. Someone was dancing tonight. Maybe Niylah. Maybe someone else. Hard to say. But people had shown up to watch.

In Bellamy's car, there was no option to roll the roof down, but Clarke still rolled the window down once the rain had stopped. She inhaled the scent of fresh rain, enjoying how it would at least briefly overpower all the other smells in the city. And she looked out the window and let the breeze flow through her hair as they drove across the Brooklyn Bridge. Somewhere on that bridge, she and Bellamy still had a lock. A lock that was supposed to symbolize a love that wouldn't break, but . . . well, things had changed, hadn't they? Because now it was broken.

She was so distracted thinking about that lock and remembering how blissful it'd felt to place it there that she barely even appreciated how beautiful the State of Liberty looked illuminated at night. When she finally had the sense to do so, it actually brought a tear to her eye. The whole city, the skyline . . . it was kind of beautiful, from far away at least. So many lights. New York didn't go to sleep at night.

But gradually, the skyline grew smaller and smaller, until it was just a speck of color in the side-view mirror. Clarke rolled her window up, rested her head against it, and closed her eyes as Bellamy drove them further and further away.

She ended up falling asleep and staying asleep for a while. When she finally woke up, it was getting light outside, and Bellamy was pulling up to a pump at a gas station. She had no idea where they were, but it _definitely_ wasn't New York. It felt like they were out in the middle of nowhere, like this gas station was the only thing around for miles.

"Hey," he said as he shut off the car.

"Hey." She sat up straighter, stretching out the crick in her back. She'd been all slumped over for hours, so she was stiff. "Where are we?" she asked him.

"Virginia," he replied. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two five-dollar bills, and handed them over to her. "Wanna get some food while I fill the tank up?" he asked.

"Sure." She didn't feel particularly hungry, but he probably needed something to eat after driving through the night.

She went inside the gas station and perused what little food options there were. Nothing looked too impressive, but at least it was cheap. Notably cheaper than it would have been in New York, too. She could get a can of Pringles, a sack of gummy bears, _and_ a bottle of water here for what it would have cost for the water alone there.

As she stood in line, waiting to pay for the snacks, she found herself looking outside distractedly. Bellamy was standing by the gas tank, one hand clamped down on the pump as it fueled up. His thick, dark hair blew all around his face, and his amazing skin shone in the light of the morning. God, he looked so good.

Thankfully, when she got up to the front of the line, she was able to shake herself out of her stupor long enough to pay for everything. She had a couple bucks leftover, so she bought a candy bar, too. Then, with $1.50 left in hand, she carried everything out to the car, hoping Bellamy wasn't expecting anything substantial. Chips and candy . . . that was pretty much gonna have to get it done.

"You want me to drive?" she offered, knowing he could probably use some shut-eye.

"Sure," he said, walking around to the other side of the car.

It took a minute or so to readjust the driver's seat so that she could reach the pedals, and Bellamy had to scoot the passenger's seat back a bit so he had enough leg room. But once they were back on the road, they delved into the snacks. The Pringles were gone in no time, but he let her have more of the gummy bears. The split the candy bar half and half and took turns drinking the water whenever it was needed. When they weren't eating, they talked. Never about anything serious, but . . . more like small-talk. She said that Virginia kind of reminded her of Kansas. He said he'd forgotten how wide open everything looked out in the country.

Bellamy probably would have tried to stay awake if she'd had no idea where she was going, but it wasn't hard to just stay on the interstate and keep going. Somewhere in Tennessee, traffic got all backed up because of an accident, slowing to almost a stand-still, and that was where Bellamy finally fell asleep. She turned on the radio lightly to keep herself awake, and for about half an hour, she and the other drivers just _inched_ forward. But eventually, the congestion let up, and they were clear of the accident and free to go fast again.

She made it into Alabama before needing to stop at a gas station for a bathroom break. When she came out, he'd switched seats with her and was behind the wheel again. When she got in the car, she saw that he'd gone inside and bought two slices of pizza. His had pepperoni; hers didn't. They both looked pretty cardboard-y and horrible, to be honest, but it was something to eat, so she smiled at him.

For the rest of the drive, Clarke sort of just rested her eyes. She didn't really fall back asleep, but she didn't bother to keep her eyes open the whole time, either. Mississippi was a whole lot of backwoods nothing for the most part, so it made for a peaceful albeit boring drive. They were definitely getting closer, though, making good time.

It'd gotten dark by the time they made it to Louisiana. Clarke did open her eyes long enough to catch a _Welcome to Louisiana_ sign. It had a pelican on it, and Bellamy explained before she could even ask about it, "It's the Pelican State."

Was it really? She'd never even associated pelicans with Louisiana before. She just thought of that damn alligator meat he was probably going to convince her to try. "I think Kansas is the Sunflower State," she recalled.

"That's better," he said. "You know what New York is?"

She shook her head.

"The Empire State."

"Hmm." That was . . . fitting. New York would never be caught dead with the Pelican State as its nickname.

She stayed fully awake from that point onward, taking in the sights of Louisiana. As much as she could see in the dark, anyway. When she flipped channels on the radio, there was a _lot_ of country music, even some bluegrass stuff. She had to laugh at how bad it all sounded, but it brought a smile to Bellamy's face. It was a far cry from the rap music he liked to listen to these days, but it probably sounded familiar.

"We're gettin' closer now," Bellamy announced, pointing to a sign that said Trikru was twenty-four miles away.

"Is this weird?" Clarke asked him, wondering what it felt like to be back home after being gone for so long.

"A little bit," he said.

It'd feel weird for her, too, she supposed, a few days from now when _she_ got back home. At least she had a wedding to go to, though, instead of a funeral.

The closer they got to Trikru, the more animated Bellamy became. He talked about how far away they were from Baton Rouge, the capital, and the things to do there. He reminisced about some late night joyrides with his friends from high school right out here on this very interstate. And when they finally got off the interstate, he even sat up straighter, because clearly his hometown wasn't far away, and clearly he was a little bit excited to be back.

Clarke glimpsed the population sign on the way into town—even fewer people than Arkadia, so that was saying something. It definitely had that small town vibe right from the start. There seemed to be a main street, which Bellamy drove her down so he could point out the bar where he'd snuck his first drink and the grocery store where he'd worked his first job. "Shit," he said. "This place hasn't changed a bit."

Maybe that was comforting then. She hoped it was. "Where's your school?" she asked him.

"We'll drive by it," he said, taking a left turn. He wound through some residential roads, where Clarke saw plenty of small houses, mixed in with a few newer, nicer ones. Nothing was super extravagant or showy. Nobody seemed to have the nicest cars or anything like that. There were some kids out playing in their yards even late at night, though. Something like that wouldn't have been safe in New York City.

"There it is," Bellamy said, pointing up off into the distance.

Clarke had to press her face against the window to get a good look at his high school, which was situated towards the top of a hill. It was hard to see it at night, but it definitely wasn't huge by any means. "Can we go up there?" she asked.

"Sure." He took a right turn, and they began to rumble down a narrow two-lane highway. They had to cross a rickety bridge, which Bellamy said sometimes got flooded because there was a legitimate swamp beneath it, and then he turned into the parking lot outside the school. It was a brick building, definitely looked like it'd been there a while. _Trikru High School_ the sign above the entrance read. _Home of the Warriors._

"Wow, this takes me back," he said. "We used to have parties out in this parking lot whenever we won a football game."

"Yeah?" They used to have parties after games, too, except they'd usually been in somebody's barn or shed.

"Yeah, it was pretty fun," he recalled. "I'll have to see if I can take you inside there before you leave. I bet there's some pictures of me."

"Yeah, that'd be cool." While she was here, she definitely wanted to see as much as she could of Bellamy's old stomping grounds, understand where he'd come from. Even if it wasn't going to change anything or amount to anything . . . she had this one last chance to get to know him better.

"We should probably get to the house," he said. "It's late."

She glanced at the clock by the radio and noticed that it was already almost 11:00. Bellamy had told Octavia to expect them anywhere from 9:00 to midnight, so she'd be waiting for them.

Bellamy's house seemed to be on the outskirts of town, because it took at least another ten minutes to get there. They had to go on some _real_ backroads, and Clarke was pretty sure they only passed by about three other houses on the way. But finally, they turned into a long driveway, and Clarke was truly surprised by the house it led up to. It was . . . kind of nice. At least on the outside. It wasn't a small as some of the shacks in town had been. It actually didn't look that much smaller than her house back home.

"I wasn't picturing this," she admitted.

"It's got a lot of work that needs to be done to it," he said, pulling the car to a stop behind a vehicle Clarke recognized as Ilian's. "Busted up shingles, broken boards on the porch . . . and the inside's kind of a fixer-upper, too."

"It's big, though," she pointed out.

"Yeah, 'cause it's old. Been in our family for a couple generations." He twisted the key to shut the car off and pulled it out of the ignition. Letting out a heavy sigh he admitted, "I can't believe I'm back."

She _really_ wanted to reach over and put a reassuring hand on his thigh or something, but . . . she couldn't do that. So she just waited for him to open the door and get out, then did the same.

First, she took a moment to inhale the air, realizing at once that rural Louisiana smelled different than rural Kansas did. Kansas was very . . . farmy. This was swampy. The air was moist and sticky, filled with mosquitos and the annoying buzz and chirp of crickets. Other than that, it was quiet, though. No police sirens, no yelling, no literal gunshots off in the distance. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to not hear those sounds.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, and out came Octavia, exclaiming, "Bellamy!" She ran towards her brother and practically flung herself into his arms, hugging him so tightly that he stumbled backwards a bit.

"Hey," he said, smiling as he held her. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she said. "I'm so glad you're here."

Clarke stood back and watched the siblings, wondering what a bond like that was like. Being an only child, she didn't know, but seeing Bellamy and Octavia together actually made her wish she'd had someone else growing up.

"I'm not goin' anywhere," Bellamy said, slowly releasing her from the hug. "I'm gonna stay."

Octavia's whole face lit up with excitement. "Really?" she said, smiling tearfully.

He nodded.

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him again, looking like she was crying a bit this time. It was obvious how much she loved her big brother, and even though Clarke felt a different kind of love for him . . . it was the same feeling, the feeling of being grateful for him, of wanting him to be around, of never wanting to let him go.

Determined not to get too caught up in her own emotions, she glanced back at the house, where Ilian stood in the doorway, watching his girlfriend reunite with her brother. He waved at Clarke, and she waved back at him, not surprised to see that his long hair had gotten even longer since they'd visited New York. He was definitely a good-looking kid, and Octavia was beautiful, too, so if they had kids someday, they'd be genetically blessed.

Once Octavia was done hugging her brother, she came over to Clarke and said, "Hey, Clarke. Thanks for coming." And she gave her a hug, too.

 _Does she even know Bellamy and I broke up?_ Clarke wondered. It didn't seem likely, but . . . she'd figure it out eventually. "I'm sorry about your mom," she said sympathetically, wishing there was something better to say.

"Thanks," Octavia said. She managed a shaky smile then and said, "Come inside. We had a late dinner, so there's still food leftover."

Clarke felt her stomach growl as she cast a glance at Bellamy. Yeah, food was definitely something they were both in dire need of.

Octavia and Ilian's dinner turned out to just be macaroni and cheese out of the box, but there was nothing wrong with that. Food of the gods, in Clarke's mind. They'd made a _lot_ of it, too, so there was plenty for both of them to have a full bowl. They sat down at the kitchen table with the two young lovebirds and practically devoured it, and when Octavia noted how fast they were chowing down, Bellamy told her, "We've been livin' off gas station food for the past twenty-one hours."

"Yeah, this is better," Clarke agreed as she polished off the remainder of what was in her bowl. God, she'd eaten even faster than Bellamy, but he didn't have much left, either.

"Well, sorry about the mess," Octavia said, motioning to the living room, where there were many boxes piled up along the walls. Either Aurora had been a hoarder or Octavia had already packed up some of her stuff. "I haven't cleaned for a while," she said. "I was going to, but . . . then things just went crazy."

"No, it's fine," Bellamy assured her.

Clarke nodded in agreement. Sure, there were some unwashed dishes in the sink, and there were some clothes on the living room floor. But Octavia was just a seventeen year-old girl. Keeping up the house wasn't supposed to have been her responsibility.

"I should . . ." Octavia's sentenced dissolved into a yawn, but she finished it anyway. ". . . do the dishes before I go to bed."

"Or you could just go to bed," Ilian suggested, putting his arm around the back of her chair.

"No, I should just get them done," she mumbled. She seemed so different than she had in New York. She'd been bubbly there, even kind of bratty and annoying. But here and now, she was mature. So New York probably had just been a momentary escape for her. An escape from . . . all of this.

"Go to bed," Bellamy said. It wasn't a suggestion coming from him, more like a loving order. "I'll do it," he offered.

"No, you don't have to," Octavia insisted.

"Just go to bed," he repeated, "get some rest before tomorrow."

 _Tomorrow,_ Clarke thought, looking down at her lap. Yep, tomorrow was the funeral. Tomorrow was going to be tough on both of the Blakes.

Octavia seemed to realize that, because she thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Okay," she said. "Thanks, Bellamy." She leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek, then got up and headed upstairs with Ilian. Bellamy didn't question that they were both going into her room to sleep there together, so Clarke couldn't help but tease him about that.

"Wow," she said. "Letting your little sister's boyfriend spend the night. You're pretty much the coolest big brother ever."

Bellamy shrugged and said, "They graduated. And he's good for her, so . . ."

He definitely was. Octavia had dealt with a lot in her young life, gone through some pretty tough things. And it was so clear that Ilian was like her anchor, the person who kept her centered in this crazy world. It was a good thing she had him.

When Bellamy got up from the table and brought his bowl over to the sink, Clarke did the same with hers. "I can help," she said. "You wash, I dry?" It didn't look like they had a dishwasher, so the drying was going to have to happen by hand.

"I got it covered," he said. "You should go upstairs, go see my room."

Oh, as much as she truly was willing to help with the dishes, the prospect of seeing Bellamy's high school bedroom was pretty much delightful. So she agreed to it pretty readily. "Okay," she said. "Which one is it?"

"Just straight up the stairs," he said. "It should have a _B_ carved into the door."

"Alright." She left him in the kitchen, retrieved her bag out of the living room, and hauled it up the creaky stairs to the second floor. Indeed, right at the top was the door with the B on it. Bellamy must have carved it there himself. She traced her fingers over it, then turned the knob and stepped inside.

It was dark, too dark to see much of anything other than the outline of a double bed, a dresser, and a desk. So she slid her hand against the wall, searching for the light switch. She found it and flipped it, but no light came on.

Setting her bag down near the door, she ventured further into the room. She stubbed her toe on something rock solid on the floor, and when she looked down, she saw a weight. Because of course high school Bellamy had lifted weights. He'd been a football player after all.

She took her phone out of her pocket to shine its flashlight on the room, and when she caught sight of the posters on Bellamy's wall, up by his bed, she was struck by how unchanged this room must have been. Because Bellamy had pictures from magazines of all sorts of beautiful women, some famous, some not. None of them had much on in the way of clothing, and she actually had to laugh at that. Because this was the same guy who'd hated the fact that her barely-clothed pictures had been all over Grounders. But then again . . . he didn't know any of the girls in these posters. He _really_ knew her.

On his desk was a computer, a big laptop that had to have been outdated even six years ago. There were stickers of famous actors stuck to the outside of it, and that made her smile. When she opened it up, the keys were so dusty, clearly untouched for over half a decade now.

She shone the light from her phone on some of the items on his desk: a map from Trikru to Los Angeles, a math textbook that didn't look like it'd ever been opened, and a couple of condoms. Oh, high school Bellamy had _definitely_ gotten laid, probably right here in this room on plenty of occasions.

Over on his nightstand was a picture of him and Octavia from his graduation day. He was wearing the full-on cap and gown, and he looked _so_ young. She could tell that he wasn't as buff and muscular back then, and his hair was longer and so curly. The change in Octavia was even more drastic, because she'd just been a preteen back at that time. No makeup, braids in her hair. Bellamy had to bend down to even get in the picture with her. It was . . . adorable.

And in the background of that picture was a woman who looked familiar, mostly because she looked so much like Octavia. Long dark hair, half a smile on her face. That had to be his mom. For whatever reason, she probably hadn't wanted to be in the picture, but when Clarke looked at her there . . . she actually looked proud of him. Just as she should have been.

"That's a good picture," Bellamy said, clearing his throat.

She whirled around, afraid that she looked nosy. Well, she _was_ nosy, to be honest. Seeing this room was like seeing vintage Bellamy. It was great.

"Wow," he said, walking towards her. "It feels the same in here."

"It's very . . . boyish," she remarked, motioning to the posters on the wall.

He chuckled. "Yeah." Reaching down, he tried to switch on his bedside lamp, but the light flickered and went out.

"I think these lights stopped working," she said.

"Yeah." He looked around some more, as if he were peering _through_ the darkness, and shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe she kept it like this," he said, his voice full of surprise.

 _Maybe she cared about you more than you think,_ Clarke wanted to say. But it didn't seem like her place to say that, not when she didn't even know Aurora.

"Well, you can sleep up here," he said, reaching down to press his hand against the mattress. "Bed's still comfy."

"Oh, but . . . where are you gonna sleep?" she asked. "Do you guys have a guest room?"

"No," he said. "It's alright, I'll sleep down on the couch."

"The couch," she echoed. Was that really a good idea?

"It's either that or my mom's room," he said, "so . . . the couch it is."

She understood why he couldn't go sleep in his mom's room, but . . . the couch was where she'd actually been found _dead_. She wasn't going to make him sleep down there, not when this room was still technically his. "I can sleep down there," she offered.

"No, you're the guest. You sleep up here," he said. "It's fine, Clarke. I'm fine down there."

"Yeah, but . . ." She didn't want to say anything, but she was going to feel bad about it all night if she didn't. "Bellamy, your mom _died_ there," she said. "Do you really wanna-"

"It's fine," he repeated. "It's a couch. Don't worry about it."

He wasn't really leaving much room for debate, and rather than arguing with him, she decided to just respect his wishes. "Okay," she said. But god, this whole thing would have been a lot easier if they had just been able to share a bed. Like they used to. Like they'd gotten _so_ used to doing.

"Alright," he said, already backing towards the door. "Bathroom's down the hall. Let me know if you need anything."

"Okay." She waited until he'd shut the door to sit down on the side of his bed, testing out the mattress for comfort. Yeah, it was pretty nice. After a night on the couch, another night on the floor, and plenty of eye-resting time in the car, she was probably going to curl up and sleep like a baby tonight. And hopefully, even though he was downstairs on that couch . . . hopefully Bellamy managed to do the same.

...

The moment he lay down and tried to fall asleep, Bellamy realized how much he'd underestimated how eerie it was going to feel lying on the couch. Not only had his mom overdosed right there, but he'd grown up seeing her passed out there so many times before. So sleep was hard to come by. Maybe it wouldn't be if he went out and got a new couch. Someone in town was always having a garage sale. He could find something cheap.

He sat up, ran his hands through his hair, and glanced at the clock on his phone around 2:30. Great. Still a couple hours to go before he really needed to be awake and get ready for the funeral. A couple more hours to just lie there, thinking about all the things he might have been able to do differently over the years, all the things he wished he'd said to just get her to _stop._

Getting up, he walked over towards the fireplace that never got used—probably didn't even work anymore—and picked a shirt up off the floor. It was one of hers. Nothing fancy or anything like that, just a t-shirt. A grey t-shirt that said _Warrior Mom_ on the front with a picture of a football. All the moms had gotten those from the Booster Club his senior year. She'd managed to make it to a couple of his home games that year, and she'd worn that shirt.

He turned it around to the back and saw _Blake_ on the shoulders, above the number seven. That'd been his jersey number. When she'd worn that shirt, she'd actually been supporting him.

"She liked that shirt," Octavia said suddenly, startling him as she crept downstairs. He thought he'd been alone. "She wore it a lot."

She had? Maybe just as something to wear to bed then, because he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen her wearing it. But here it was, looking pretty worn, kind of faded. So yeah, maybe she had worn it when he wasn't around.

Octavia came closer to him and took a look at the pillows and blankets he'd set out on the couch. "You're sleeping down here?" she asked. "Why aren't you up with Clarke?"

He folded up his mom's shirt and put it on top of an unmarked cardboard box. "Clarke and I aren't . . ." He tried to just blurt it out, but . . . it wasn't exactly _good_ news. He hated piling more bad news on his sister right now. Unable to lie to her, though, he finally mumbled, "We aren't together anymore."

"What?" Octavia gasped. "Since when?"

"Recently." Everything that had happened . . it'd all just happened so fast, almost right at once.

"So she's not . . . she's not staying here with you?" she sputtered confusedly.

"No." This was just a pit-stop on the long way home for her. He wasn't going to try to hold her back. "She just came for a couple days."

Octavia grunted exasperatedly. "So what, she's just gonna move back to New York and you guys are just over?"

"No, she's gonna move back to Kansas," he corrected. "But we _are_ over." Given how peaceful the drive here had been . . . he really had to keep reminding himself of that.

"Why?" she asked.

He shook his head. "It's hard to explain."

"But Bellamy-"

"Look, O, I can't . . ." He didn't want to snap at her, but he didn't have it in him to launch into a whole discussion about him and Clarke right now. That situation was intense enough all on its own, even without all this other crap going on. "I can't deal with that right now," he said. "Mom's funeral's tomorrow, and that's about all I can handle."

Even though his little sister was notorious for being stubborn, sometimes even to the point of being aggravating, she knew well enough to back off this time, and instead of pushing him for more answers, she just nodded in understanding. Then, she coiled her hands around his arm, leaned her head against his shoulder, and said, "I'm really glad you're here." And it wasn't the first time she'd said those words that night.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side for a hug. "So am I," he said. It'd been a long time since he'd been home, but maybe he was finally back where he belonged.


	72. Chapter 72

_Chapter 72_

Clarke probably wouldn't have woken up when she did had it not been for some slight noise. She rolled over, squinting as she struggled to open her eyes, and saw that the closet doors were open, and Bellamy was looking around in it, rifling through shirts and pants and jackets almost frantically.

"Bellamy?" she said, sitting up in the bed. _His_ bed, technically. "You okay?"

"No, I'm not." He didn't even look at her, just kept searching through his closet. "My mom's funeral's in three hours, and I don't even have a suit to wear."

"You don't?" She got out of bed, checking to make sure she wasn't just wearing a t-shirt. Nope, she had shorts on, so she walked towards him, hoping she'd be able to calm him down somehow. He looked _completely_ frazzled.

"I mean, I got one back here from high school," he said, yanking a black suit-jacket and pants out of the back of his closet, "but that won't fit anymore."

One glance at that jacket, and she knew he was right. Bellamy had bulked up since then, so there was no way he could squeeze into that. "Well, maybe Ilian has one you can borrow," she suggested. Ilian was a muscley guy, too. They were probably about the same size.

"Yeah, maybe," he said, putting the old suit back. "I'll go ask him." He headed towards the door, but he stopped before leaving the room and turned back around to ask, "Did you sleep alright?"

Oh, of course. Even in the midst of all the stress he had to be feeling this morning, of course he still wanted to make sure _she_ had gotten some sleep. "Yeah," she said, figuring she'd gotten a hell of a lot more than he had. His bed was comfy.

"Good." It didn't really look like he could muster up a smile right now, and maybe he wouldn't be able to for a few more days. But he seemed genuinely glad to hear that as he left the room.

She sighed, wishing he'd slept well, too, but . . . it didn't seem likely.

When she was alone, Clarke was able to get a better look at Bellamy's room, all bathed in daylight now. There was a collage of famous actors up above his dresser, framed and everything. He had a small collection of movies piled into a dusty bookshelf in the corner of the room, and the only books there were books about acting, with _one_ sex positions book mixed in. And on the inside of his closet door was a poster, plain black, with simple white font on it. It read, _Sometimes I feel like giving up, but I've got a lot of motherfuckers to prove wrong._ She smiled at that.

The funeral was at 10:00, so she really couldn't afford to spend too much time looking around the room. (It was so cool, though, like walking around a museum or something, and everything in it was an artifact of Bellamy Blake.) She grabbed her toothbrush, headed into the bathroom, and did her morning business before she hopped into the shower for a much-needed soak. The water started getting cold after about ten minutes, so she made it an abbreviated soak.

When she left the bathroom, she was only wearing a towel, but she just figured she'd slip back into the bedroom unnoticed. But she bumped into Octavia and apologized, "Oh, sorry."

"It's okay," Octavia said.

Clarke eased past her, not quite sure how Bellamy's sister was going to get ready in just under an hour so they could get there by 9:00. Her hair was everywhere, her leftover makeup was smeared, and it wasn't even fair, because she still looked beautiful.

"Good thing I'm not Bellamy," Octavia said before Clarke could re-enter the bedroom, "otherwise this might be awkward."

Slowly, she turned back around, clutching the towel to her chest. "He told you?" she asked, surprised that Bellamy had opened up about their split.

"Yeah." Octavia frowned, her brows deeply furrowed. "I don't get it. Why would you guys break up?"

 _Long story,_ Clarke thought. And it was a story she was still grappling with herself. "He broke up with me," she said, wanting to make it very clear that, no, this hadn't been her decision.

Octavia tilted her head to the side curiously.

"Don't even worry about that today," Clarke told her. "You've got enough going on."

Octavia lowered her head then, a solemn expression sweeping her face. She nodded in agreement and slipped into the bathroom, and Clarke retreated back to Bellamy's room, where she could finish getting ready.

She was fortunate to have packed a black dress in the bag she'd kept with her, because there was no way anything of Octavia's would have fit her. The dress was a bit too short for a funeral, though, so she paired it with some black leggings underneath. The only black shoes she had were sandals, which felt a little too casual, but they would have to do. She found an outlet in Bellamy's room, so she plugged in her blow-dryer and got to work on her hair. It didn't need to be fancy, so she went with a simple low ponytail, letting it remain wavy and relatively un-styled. She kept her makeup simple, and as she applied a nude lip gloss, she noticed something tucked into the back of the dirty mirror atop Bellamy's dresser. It was a folded piece of paper, and the two corners she could see of it were discolored and crumpled.

She held the mirror steady with one hand and pulled the paper out from behind it with the other. It was . . . a card. A hand-drawn, hand-colored card that said _Mom_ on the front and had a picture of a woman with long dark hair on the front. Aurora Blake, no doubt.

Even though it felt a bit nosy, Clarke couldn't help but peek at what was inside the card. And what she saw nearly melted her heart. It was a _Mother's Day_ card. Bellamy must have made it for her when he was very young, because he'd misspelled simple words, and the handwriting looked like a little kid's. On the inside, he'd written line after line about how he loved her. It was utterly adorable.

But . . . but why did _he_ have it? Why hadn't it been somewhere in his mom's room? She got her answer when she looked at the back. There were stains on the paper, what looked very much like trash stains. Like his mother had just tossed it.

 _Oh my god._ She felt tears sting her eyes as she imagined what that must have been like, to work on a gift for a parent and have them just completely disregard it like that. She didn't know that feeling, because she'd never experienced it. Every card she'd ever made or picture she'd ever drawn for her parents had ended up on the refrigerator. Some of them were framed and hanging throughout the house.

It'd been a long time ago, but she felt _so_ bad for him then, and even bad for him now. Because his relationship with his mom had never really changed. As she put the card back where she'd found it, she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt building up in the pit of her stomach, because she'd complained about her parents _so much_ this past year. And sure, they weren't perfect, but . . . she could have done a lot worse. This right here was proof of that.

Tears stung her eyes, and she knew she was going to have to touch up her makeup. Resigned to doing a bit of crying, she walked back over to the bed, sat down, and took her phone out of her purse. She called the very first number she'd ever stored in her contacts: her mom.

"Hello?" her mother answered quickly.

 _She sounds happy to hear from me,_ Clarke thought. Bellamy's mother wouldn't have. "Mom?" she choked out tearfully.

"Oh, hi, sweetie. Are you on your way home?"

"No, not yet." She sniffled, feeling genuinely thankful for the first time in a long time that her parents actually _wanted_ her to come home. They cared about her. They worried, which was a lot better than not worrying. "I just wanted to call you because . . ." She breathed in and out shakily, trying not to start crying too hard. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for how strained things have been between us," she apologized, her voice cracking with emotion. "I'm sorry for being so distant. And for disappointing you." Even though her mom would ultimately be able to get past the stripping thing, it had to have stung. "I'm really sorry."

"Oh, honey, it's okay," her mother soothed. "I love you."

Clarke breathed a sigh of relief, because she felt like, no matter what, that would always be true. "I love you, too," she said, feeling fortunate in that moment. So very fortunate.

...

There was some cruel irony in the fact that the word _fun_ was part of the world _funeral._ There was nothing fun about it.

There was no church service. The funeral took place directly at the cemetery. Aurora's casket was closed, and it was . . . modest. Just a modest casket, nothing fancy. The whole turnout was pretty modest, too. Not a whole lot of people had shown up, but Bellamy introduced her to a few family members, including the aunt who had planned the funeral. None of them really said a whole lot to each other, and when no one was within earshot, Bellamy admitted that he didn't know his extended family well.

No family members spoke at all during the service. It was all the minister, apparently a local guy because he had a very thick southern accent. He read some verses from the bible, and when it was time to talk about Aurora's life, he mostly kept it focused on her kids. What else could he say? If Clarke knew the woman's reputation, it was safe to say everyone else who had shown up there did, too. She'd had problems, _major_ problems. Some of them were her fault, and some weren't. But by talking about Bellamy and Octavia, the minister was able to speak with a notion of hope that Aurora would live on in her children. It was nice.

When it came time for the family members to lay some flowers on her casket, Octavia lost it a little. She started crying so hard that she couldn't even walk up there, so Bellamy helped her. He kept it together for the most part, a sturdy rock for his sister to lean on. And when the casket started being lowered into the ground, she quite literally did lean on him. He wrapped his arm around her waist, hugging her to his side, holding her close while she cried. Clarke stood beside him, noticing how his lips were quivering, how his jaw was doing the same. He was holding it together, but this wasn't easy for him. He was right there on the edge of crying, too, and it would be okay if he did.

She reached out and took his hand in hers, not really caring if it was her place to do so anymore. Bellamy needed someone to look after him right now. For once. She felt him give her hand a gentle squeeze, so it didn't seem like an unwanted touch. In fact, his mouth and jaw stopped quivering then, so maybe it helped.

Afterward, the people closest to Aurora stayed behind to drop some dirt into her grave, and the non-family members dispersed to give them some space. Since the only other person Clarke even knew was Ilian, she stuck with him. His family was there, too, a mother and father and younger brother, and it was so clear in the way they talked to Ilian about Octavia that they already thought of her as part of their family. They said things like, "She can come stay with us whenever she wants this summer," and, "We'll just help both of you move in at college." They all seemed really nice.

As more and more people began to disperse, including Ilian's family, Clarke stuck close to his side, watching as Bellamy and Octavia remained at their mother's grave, looking down into it, their arms still linked around each other. "So there's not gonna be a wake, huh?" she said for small talk's sake.

"Nope," he replied. "Aurora didn't want one."

Aurora had thought about all this? Wasn't the woman just barely in her forties? "How does anyone know what she wanted?" Clarke asked.

"Well, she and Octavia talked about it."

They had? What a morbid conversation for a mother and daughter to have. Clarke could understand if the mother had some terminal illness or something, and they'd _needed_ to talk about it, but . . . Aurora hadn't had an illness; she'd had an addiction. "Did she do this on purpose?" she asked Ilian, because it didn't seem right to ask either Bellamy or Octavia.

"Maybe," he said. "We'll probably never know for sure."

Not knowing was probably worse than anything. Because there was always going to be this nagging uncertainty. Even if they tried to believe it'd just been an accidental overdose, there was a very strong possibility that it hadn't been.

Still hanging back, Clarke watched as a beautiful, regal-looking black woman approached the siblings. Octavia unhooked herself from Bellamy and gave her a big hug, and Bellamy even hugged her, too, something he hadn't done with most of his family members.

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Oh, that's Indra," Ilian replied. "She's . . . well, she's about the closest thing Aurora had to a friend. She used to babysit Octavia when Bellamy wasn't able to. She lives about a mile away from them."

"So she's the closest thing they have to a neighbor, too?" Clarke surmised. Houses were few and far between where the Blakes lived.

"Pretty much." He shrugged.

When Bellamy and Octavia did leave their mother's graveside and walk towards Clarke and Ilian, it was with that Indra woman accompanying them. They were in the middle of a full-on conversation, and it didn't sound super depressing or downbeat, which was encouraging. Octavia was saying, "Indra, you really don't have to. We're doing alright."

"Don't even try to argue with me on this, Octavia," she said. "I'm bringing you dinner tonight whether you want it or not."

"I want it," Bellamy piped up.

"Good. I'll make plenty," she said. Casting a curious look at Ilian, she asked, "Will you be there, too?"

"Yeah, probably," he answered.

"And you . . ." Indra looked to Clarke, taking a moment to try to recognize her. "You I don't know."

"Oh, Indra, this is Clarke," Bellamy introduced them quickly. "She's my . . . she's my friend."

It felt _so_ weird to hear him call her that, but hell, it could have been worse. "Hi," she said, doing a dumb little wave.

"Nice to meet you," Indra said.

"She's staying with us for a couple days," Bellamy told her.

"Oh, I see." She surveyed him for a moment, then asked, "And how long are you staying?"

"Um . . . for good," he replied. "Got kinda tired of New York City."

 _Yeah,_ Clarke thought, _New York City's kind of tiring._

"Well, we're glad to have you back," Indra said. She waved goodbye and said, "I'll see you all tonight."

"Okay. Bye," Octavia called. When it was just the four of them, she said, "Oh, thank God. I really couldn't do boxed mac-and-cheese for another night."

Even though they were standing in a cemetery with an open grave a few feet back, that got a small smile, maybe even a little bit of a chuckle, out of Bellamy. Seeing him smile made Clarke smile, too.

...

Not that there was anything wrong with simple cooking, but Bellamy was _so glad_ Indra brought a meal over that night. He hadn't actually gotten to experience a real home-cooked meal in years, so Bellamy was all about her chicken and dumplings, and her wild rice casserole, and more than anything else, her seafood lasagna. She'd brought over the regular kind of lasagna, though, too, which Clarke stuck to since she wasn't a southerner.

"Indra, this is so good," he raved, practically talking with his mouth full.

"I haven't been hungry for the past four days, but now I'm starving," Octavia added. Her face was about two inches away from her plate, and she just kept shoveling stuff in.

"I'm glad you like it." Indra sat at the table with them, but she barely ate anything. In fact, whenever one of them wanted more, she took it upon herself to scoop some onto their plate, and if the buttery biscuits needed warmed up, she was the one to get up and pop them into the microwave for a quick zap.

Bellamy nudged Clarke's arm and said, "Beats the hell out of gummy bears and Pringles, doesn't it?"

Covering her mouth as she chewed, she nodded vigorously in agreement.

"So Bellamy, what are you plans now that you're back here?" Indra asked him. "You have a job lined up?"

He almost laughed, because no way was his life planned out enough for that. "I don't really have anything," he admitted.

"Well, the bar's probably hiring," Indra hinted. "And Hank's."

"What's Hank's?" Clarke inquired.

"Auto shop," he explained. Thinking about how he'd had to rely on fucking Finn Collins of all people to give him auto help this year, he shook his head. "I don't think I'm cut out for that one."

"You're not bad at fixing cars," Clarke told him.

"I'm not good at it, either." Serving drinks was probably going to be his best bet. "Does Ben still run the bar?" he asked Indra.

"He does," she confirmed.

"I might stop in there tomorrow then."

"Yeah, if you can tend a bar in New York City," Ilian said, "you can definitely tend one in Trikru."

"Ah, New York." Indra sighed, smiling wistfully. "It's been ages since I've been there. Beautiful city."

Bellamy exchanged a quick look with Clarke, then muttered, "Well, parts of it."

"Yeah, not really the part we lived in," Clarke said. "And our apartment wasn't exactly fancy."

"Oh, you lived together?" Indra asked.

 _Oh, shit,_ Bellamy thought. Now was when things probably got awkward.

"Well, for a while," Clarke said, looking like a bit of a deer in the headlights as she struggled to say something. "But, um . . ." Eventually, she just trailed off and changed the topic altogether. "So Ilian told me you used to babysit Octavia."

"I did." Indra smiled. "She was too rambunctious for her big brother to take care of her."

"Her big brother also had football practice," Bellamy pointed out.

Octavia swallowed what was in her mouth and said, "No joke, Indra, you were, like, the best teacher I ever had. And you weren't even my teacher. You practically tutored me through middle school. And you taught me how to do karate and stuff."

Clarke's eyebrows shot up. "Karate?"

"Yeah, I needed an anger outlet when I started high school."

"Sure did," Bellamy agreed.

"I own the rec center here in town," Indra told Clarke. "Octavia would come after school, and I'd give her lessons for free."

"Oh, I remember the rec center," Bellamy recalled. "I was supposed to take swimming lessons there, but I ended up just jumping in the creek instead."

Octavia laughed. "One time my friends and I were there taking a dance class, and you and your friends showed up to play basketball. And my friends pretty much hit puberty in that moment."

"Oh, yeah," Clarke said, "I've heard they all had a crush on him."

"Can you blame them?" he joked.

But when she answered, she was serious. "No."

Their eyes met, and he wasn't quite sure how to look away. Was she saying . . . after _everything_ that'd gone down between them, did she still have some of those feelings leftover? Was it even possible?

They both looked away at the same time, and thankfully, Indra picked up the conversation again, talking about how she wanted to offer some new classes at the rec center but needed to find qualified teachers. Bellamy only halfway listened, because his mind was stuck on what Clarke had said.

...

In the middle of the night, Clarke woke up and had to go to the bathroom, but as she headed back to the bedroom, she thought she heard movement from down in the living room. Creeping downstairs, she saw a small light coming from the couch. Bellamy's phone, she realized. When she got down there, she found him sitting up on the couch, wide awake and staring at the screen as he looked up . . . something.

"You're still awake?" she said, making her way to the couch.

"Yeah," he said. "I was lookin' at all this student loan stuff."

There was enough space for her to take a seat next to him without being too close, so she did. "For Octavia?" She didn't even know why she bothered to ask. Of course it'd be for Octavia. Bellamy was going to prioritize her education over any chance of his.

"Yeah. It sucks, 'cause my mom was gonna take out a parent loan," he said, "but now that she's gone . . ." He trailed off, letting out a heavy sigh. "Technically, Octavia's not an adult yet, so I'm her legal guardian for the next couple months."

Her _legal guardian?_ God, that seemed like a lot of responsibility to have, especially since Bellamy still wasn't all that old himself. "Your mom had it set up that way?"

"Yeah." He set his phone aside. "As soon as I turned eighteen, I made sure she set that up. I didn't ever wanna risk her ending up in foster care."

 _As soon as he turned eighteen,_ Clarke registered. Bellamy had anticipated his mother's early passing even back then.

"But I'm not a parent, so I can't take out a parent loan," he said. "That's stupid, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she agreed. "She doesn't have anyone else." The way the federal government chose to distribute its money was something she just didn't understand sometimes. "Is she still gonna be able to go?"

"Oh, she'll go," he said, sounding dead-set on that. "She'll just have to take out more student loans. But I'll help her pay 'em off. It'll take decades, but it'll get done."

She let that sink in, the extremes he was willing to go for her, and it was . . . honestly heartwarming. "You're, like, such a devoted brother," she told him, a little bit in awe. Octavia's college education wasn't really his burden to bear, but he was going to bear it anyway, because he loved her so much.

"I just want the best for her," he said.

 _Just like you want for me,_ she thought, looking down at her lap. But what was best for Octavia was just so clear, and what was best for her . . . even now, it still felt uncertain.

"How long are you gonna stay?" he asked her suddenly.

"I don't know." She hadn't exactly planned any of this out. "Maybe a couple more days?"

He nodded, looking at her, not breaking eye contact.

"I mean, unless you don't want me here," she said. There was always the possibility that she was intruding. Maybe he and Octavia needed this time to grieve together. "If I'm in the way, I can just . . ."

"No, you can stay," he cut in quickly. "For a couple more days."

Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Right." Even though she wasn't sure how many days that would end up being, it was something. Something she needed probably just as much as he did. Because she still wasn't ready to say goodbye.

...

The day after the funeral was kind of weird. Because . . . life went on. It went on for Octavia, who had to find something to do with her time because her boyfriend had a summer job, and it went on for Bellamy, who needed to find a job of his own. Clarke accompanied him into town to that bar on Main Street Indra had mentioned. Fisherman's Wharf. When they walked inside, Clarke was struck by how familiar it all seemed to the Bison Pub. Even the size and layout was similar. The main difference was that, instead of mounted buffalo horns on the wall, there was one of those annoying singing fish things. "Wow," she said. "This reminds me of the bar back home."

"Except you can get alligator meat here." He smirked, leading her up to the counter.

"Seriously?"

"No."

"Well, where do you get that?" She'd never seen it on any store shelves before.

"You wanna try some before you leave?" he asked her teasingly.

"I'm not sure. Maybe." It'd probably be best if she didn't know she was eating it and just thought she was eating something else.

"It's kind of expensive," he said, sitting down at the bar.

"Oh, never mind then." She hopped up onto the stool next to him just as a bearded man approached.

"Bellamy," he said with a welcoming smile. "Indra told me you might be coming by."

"Good to see you, Ben," Bellamy said.

So this was the owner then. Or the manager or something. The guy Bellamy needed to get a job from.

"You, too," Ben said. "Sorry to hear about your mom."

"Thanks." Bellamy fell silent for a moment, and he got this sad look in his eyes. But it didn't last, and he picked himself right back up and started talking again. "Don't suppose you've got a job for me?" he asked outright. "I really need one."

Ben didn't hesitate. "Sure do. Actually, I can use someone until 3:00 if you've got time today."

Clarke glanced up at the clock, which was conveniently located next to a naked Betty Boop drawing. That was five hours of work for Bellamy today. Which was good. He needed money.

"Yeah, I can do that," Bellamy said.

"Alright. Come on back here," Ben said. "Go ahead and get started." He headed down to the other end of the bar to take care of some old men who looked like they were retirement age and probably spent a lot of time there.

"Sorry," Bellamy said to her, sliding down off the barstool. "I can't really turn this down."

"It's fine." She was glad he'd gotten a job so easily— _such_ a small town thing to just walk in someplace, ask for a job, and get hired without filling out an application or doing an interview. She wasn't going to monopolize his time. "Octavia offered to hang out with me today," she said, "so I can take her up on that."

"Okay," he said, handing her his keys. "I'll see you later."

It felt weird not to kiss him goodbye and to just awkwardly wave as she left instead, but . . . oh, well. It was what it was.

She drove his car back to his and Octavia's house, proud of herself for not getting lost on the way. It wasn't exactly hard to find, but it was still out there on the backroads, which were easy to get turned around on. Octavia was sitting out in the front yard on a fold-up lawn chair in a skimpy swimsuit, head craned back, dark sunglasses on. She had earbuds in, so she didn't hear Clarke pull up. Clarke had to reach down and give her shoulder a little shake to get her attention, and Octavia was so startled that she nearly leapt out of her chair.

"Jesus, Clarke!" she swore, yanking out her earbuds. "You about gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry," Clarke apologized. "I was just wondering if you still wanna hang out today. Your brother got a job, so . . ."

"So you're lonely?" Octavia concluded.

Clarke shrugged helplessly. It wasn't like she knew many other people in that town.

"Sure," Octavia said, getting out of her chair. "I'll give you the town tour."

The town tour didn't end up being much of a tour, because there just wasn't much town to give a tour of. The part Clarke was most looking forward to was most definitely the high school. She felt like there might be some good Bellamy Blake tidbits lingering there. Octavia showed her the deteriorating gym, the busted up lockers, and the cafeteria, which she claimed served the worst food in the history of human existence. The highlights, however, were the trophy cases, which were brimming with awards various teams and individuals had won at the school over the years. Some of the trophies dated back decades. The oldest one Clarke spotted was from the 70s.

"Go Warriors," Octavia said in a monotone voice, unenthusiastically waving a pretend flag. "Woo."

"I can see why cheerleading didn't work out for you," Clarke said.

"Speaking of cheerleaders . . ." Octavia pointed out what looked to be a recent photo of the school's cheerleading squad from the Louisiana State Cheer competition. "Look at them." She made a face as though she detested most of the girls, then pointed them out one by and one and said, "Crush on Bellamy, crush on Bellamy, crush on Bellamy. I swear, once the girls in this town find out he's back, he's gonna be a hot commodity."

Clarke tried not to have a reaction to that, but she couldn't help but tense up a bit at the thought of every legal girl in that town throwing themselves at Bellamy. Surely a place like Trikru didn't have much selection in terms of good-looking single men, and Bellamy was smoking hot.

"Oh, look, here he is," Octavia said, pointing to a framed photo in an adjacent case. "His senior year."

"Wow," Clarke said, taking in the sight of high school Bellamy posed in the end zone with his football team. The picture looked to have been taken right after the game, because his hair was drenched, and his jersey was dirty. He was front and center in the picture, holding a trophy in his hands. "He looks so young."

"Yeah," Octavia agreed. "I remember that game. They got into the state playoffs that night, mostly because of him."

Clarke really wished his mom had been the type of mom to record videos or something, because she would have loved to see him play back in the day.

"He set a school record," Octavia told her. "Did you know that?"

"No."

Octavia pointed to a plaque next to the photo. "Look."

Clarke's eyes widened as she looked in at the award on display. "Most rushing yards in a single game," she read. "Bellamy Blake." She smiled, remembering all those times they'd gone running together and how easy it'd always seemed for him. "He never told me about that."

"It was pretty cool," Octavia said. "God, he should've gotten a football scholarship."

Any scholarship would have helped him. The likelihood that he would ever go to college now was pretty slim to none. "Why didn't he?" Clarke asked.

"Because nobody comes to Trikru, Louisiana to scout a running back." Octavia rolled her eyes. "Besides, he didn't wanna play football anyway. He wanted to act. Like he was doing here." She led Clarke down to the furthest end of the trophy case and showed her another framed photo. This one wasn't posed, but it was still of Bellamy. He was up on stage with a girl, and he looked a little younger than he had in the football photo.

"Oh my god, what is he wearing?" Clarke said, laughing.

"A costume. He was Romeo," Octavia explained.

 _Fitting,_ Clarke thought.

"They won Districts for that play that year," Octavia went on. "And whenever they went and competed, Bellamy always won these Outstanding Actor awards. He's really good."

"Yeah, I know." She thought back to being up there on stage with him, a different stage than she'd grown accustomed to being on.

"Oh, that's right," Octavia said. "You guys did that play together."

"Just one night." Taking on that part with such little formal preparation had been nerve-racking, no doubt, but . . . oh, who was she kidding? It'd been a rush. Everything with Bellamy had been. "That's when we had our first kiss," she reminisced. Thinking about that made her get a little spacey, and she realized she was getting lost in thought when she noticed Octavia giving her a curious look, almost like she was wondering if she was okay or not.

Clarke cleared her throat, snapping herself out of her memories. "So," she said, "what else is there to see around here?"

The next stop of the school tour proved to be one of the funniest ones: the girls bathroom. Clarke had no idea what they were doing in there until Octavia motioned her into one of the stalls. What she saw was a whole bunch of writing on the walls, done by high school girls over the years who had likely just used having to go to the bathroom as an excuse to get out of class.

"Oh my god. It's like a novel in here," Clarke said, marveling at everything she was seeing. Could the school not afford to have this restroom repainted over the summer, or had they just given up on trying to keep it looking nice?

"Yeah, there's more in the other stalls, too," Octavia said.

There were _plenty_ of things in there about Bellamy, lots of doodled hearts with his name or his initials in it, even some restroom drawings of him, freckles and everything. "Are these recent?" Clarke asked.

"No, most are from when he was back in high school," Octavia said. "It's nauseating. Sometimes I just used the boys bathroom in high school to avoid it."

Clarke laughed, then read a few of the things she saw scrawled there. " _Bellamy is hot._ _I love Bellamy._ _Bellamy has a big_ -" She stopped abruptly. "Oh. Never mind." It was true, though. He did have a big one.

The bathroom was good for some laughs, plus Octavia made sure to point out the things that were written about _her_ boyfriend, too. It seemed like there were some girls there who were jealous of her for dating Ilian, and she just reveled in that.

When they were heading down the hall, they bumped into a tall man. "Octavia," he said. "Didn't you graduate?"

She shrugged. "That's what I've heard."

"Can't quite cut the ties, can you?"

"Oh, I can," she said, laughing at that. "I was just showing my friend Clarke around. She's visiting."

"Hi," Clarke said, assuming this guy was the principal or something. He was dressed summery right now, but throw a suit on him and he'd fit the type.

"Hello," the principal said pleasantly before refocusing his attention on Octavia. "So I heard your brother's back in town."

"Yep," she confirmed.

"For good?"

"That's what he says."

"Interesting." The principal folded his arms, scratching his chin contemplatively. "You should tell him to come talk to me. Mr. Bogarty's retiring this year."

"Oh, finally," Octavia said.

"So we'll need a new theater sponsor. I'd love to bring an alum back to fill that role."

 _An alum,_ Clarke registered. The guy wanted to hire Bellamy.

"I can mention it to him," Octavia said.

"Please do," the principal said, giving her a pat on the shoulder as he bypassed her. "Tell him to stop by anytime."

"Okay." Octavia rolled her eyes. "That guy gave me so many detentions back in the day."

"Wait, did I hear that right?" Clarke said.

"What, detentions?"

"No. He wants Bellamy to be a _teacher_?"

"No, not a teacher, really. Just the sponsor," Octavia corrected. "The one who runs drama practice and puts on the plays. It'd be like a side job for him. He'd probably like it."

 _Yeah,_ Clarke thought, smiling as Bellamy's future continued to take shape. _He probably would._

...

"Theater sponsor?" Bellamy could barely believe what he was hearing, mostly because Mr. Bogarty had been running the Warriors theater program for as long as he or anyone else could even remember. The guy was ancient.

"Yeah, it's totally you," Octavia said as she pranced around the kitchen, preparing dinner.

"Working with high school kids?" he said skeptically. "I don't know."

"You were a high school kid once," she pointed out. "Mr. Bogarty worked with you."

"Mr. Bogarty had the patience of a saint." He'd been a little shit sometimes, spending half of rehearsal time flirting with girls and only half actually running lines. Sure, it'd always come together at the end, but it had to have been an infuriating process for their coach to get them there.

Next to him on the couch, Clarke piped up, "I think you'd be good at it."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. You're good with people. You'd be a good coach."

If she was saying that, he felt like she really meant it. She'd seen what a bad fit an office job for him was, so she wouldn't recommend any other jobs that might be another bad fit.

"Yeah, they'll probably ask you to help coach football, too," Octavia added from the kitchen.

Damn, he did kind of miss football. It'd never been a passion for him like acting had been, but it'd been fun. And even though he hadn't made it big in the acting industry, getting the chance to impart his acting knowledge or his athletic knowledge on others . . . it seemed kind of cool. "I guess it'd be extra money," he said, downplaying his enthusiasm a bit. "And I'd get to do some stuff I like." It'd be busy doing things for the school in addition to working at the bar, but the more work he could get, the more money he could get. Which meant he might be able to afford to fix up some stuff around this house, stuff his mom had never gotten around to. "Yeah, I'll go meet with the principal," he decided. "Not tomorrow, though."

"Why not?" Clarke asked. "Are you scheduled to work at the bar again?"

"No." His day was pretty much open, so he knew what he wanted to fill it with. Looking over at her, he let his eyes meet hers and then quietly said, "I just wanna spend some time with you."

She didn't say anything, but it looked like her breath hitched momentarily, and a soft smile found its way to her face. She didn't object to that all, which was a relief. Because he felt like there was a clock somewhere out there in the universe counting down on the time he had left with her. And he wanted to make the most of it.


	73. Chapter 73

_Chapter 73_

Clarke's wake-up call was quite literally a call that morning, a phone call from her dad. It came a little too early for her liking, especially since she'd been in the middle of a really, _really_ good dream, but she sat up and answered it anyway.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi, sweetheart," he said cheerfully. "How's everything going?"

"Good. I mean, the funeral was really sad, but . . . Bellamy's doing alright," she replied. "I think it's good for him to be around his sister again." They really had no choice but to be resilient about all of this, so it was a good thing they had each other to lean on.

"I'm glad to hear that," her father said. He waited a few seconds, then changed the topic to the inevitable. "Any idea when you might be coming home then?"

She tensed a bit, not sure her vague answer was going to be enough to satisfy his curiosity. "Soon, I guess."

"So maybe . . . tomorrow?" he proposed, sounding hopeful.

"Tomorrow?" she echoed. Oh god, that was just _incredibly_ soon, wasn't it?

"There's a flight out of New Orleans in the morning," he told her. "Just one stop in Dallas, and it's a quick layover."

She tried her best to sound . . . interested. Or at the very least, not freaked out. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. If you want, I can purchase the ticket for you right now," he offered. "I know your mom's anxious to see you. And she's got her wedding in a couple days, so . . . it might be nice for the two of you to spend a little time together before then."

 _The wedding,_ Clarke thought. Some maid of honor she was. She hadn't given much thought to the wedding at all. But that was good motivation then, wasn't it? She literally had no choice but to leave. She'd promised her mom she would be there for her on her special day, and she couldn't break that promise. "Um . . . yeah," she decided. "Yeah, go ahead and . . . book that." She felt a heavy, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she imagined saying goodbye to Bellamy in the airport and hopping on a plane tomorrow morning. It had to be done, she knew, but still . . . it was hard.

"Great," he said enthusiastically. "It'll be good to have you home, Clarke."

She blinked back tears, trying to smile even though he couldn't see her. But it felt like more of a wince. Because she wasn't sure if Arkadia would even feel like home anymore, if it even _could_ feel that way without Bellamy there.

After she got off the phone with her dad, she headed downstairs. Bellamy was already up, in the kitchen.

"Hey, are you hungry?" he asked as he moved some fluffy-looking eggs around a frying pan. "I was going for an omelet, but I ended up with scrambled eggs."

She smiled a little, appreciative of the breakfast offer even if she wasn't super hungry. "Yeah, eggs sound good." They'd done a lot of eggs for breakfast when they'd been living together, just because they were easy.

He turned the heat on the stove down to low, grabbed a plate out of the cabinet, and scooped some eggs onto it for her. "So I was thinking I could take you to Indra's rec center today," he said. "It's pretty cool. She's got a lot of stuff there."

Even more so than last night, she was so glad he didn't have to work today. "Sure." The rec center would be fine. Just so long as she got to spend a little more time with him. It didn't matter where they went or what they did. She just wanted to be around him while she still could.

"And then after that we could go get some lunch," he said, retrieving a fork out of the silverware drawer. He put it on her plate and handed it over to her. "There's this little hole in the wall place called The Lunch Bucket just off Main Street. They got good food. You might even get to try some alligator there." He chuckled a little, but she couldn't muster that. In fact, she couldn't even muster up an appetite. She set the plate full of eggs down on the counter, and he seemed to sense that something was bothering her. "What's up?" he questioned. "Having second thoughts?"

His tone was still lighthearted enough, so he probably was referring to lunch. "Oh, about the alligator? No. No, I'll try it," she said. Then, looking down at the floor, she added, "Might as well while I'm still here."

A serious look came over Bellamy's face, and his tone was serious, too, when he asked her, "What's wrong?"

She sighed heavily, revealing, "My dad called. He's booking a flight home for me." There was nothing _wrong_ about that, she supposed, just more . . . saddening.

"When's the flight?" Bellamy asked.

Well, that was the hardest part, wasn't it? The flight was coming up fast. "Tomorrow morning," she answered, feeling her stomach clench at the thought. She saw it all over Bellamy's face, too, that feeling of not quite being ready. Tomorrow morning was soon. It was _so_ soon.

...

Bellamy seemed determined not to let Clarke's impending departure ruin the day, so she followed suit. She went with him to the rec center, just as he'd planned for them to do, and Indra showed them around.

"Wow, you've really expanded this place," Bellamy remarked as Indra showed them out of the brand new locker rooms.

"Yeah, I even have a small staff now," she said, "including some people you went to high school with." She motioned across the hallway into an office space, where two big guys were sitting at a table, eating cheeseburgers and laughing these big old belly laughs. "They didn't stay in as good of shape as you," she acknowledged.

"I remember those guys," Bellamy said as he looked in at them. "I played football with 'em."

"Were they more in shape back in the day?" Clarke asked.

"Well, they played defense, so they were always a little bigger." He shrugged.

Indra proceeded to show them more of her building, which was a lot larger than Clarke had anticipated. Parts of it looked old, and parts had definitely been added on and were newer. It was impressive to see such a nice, multi-functional facility in such a small town. Arkadia could have used something like that, because the poor cheerleaders were always forced to practice in hallways since there was never any available gym space.

As if on cue, Indra lead them to such a space and said, "Here's the gym. The bigger gym. We've got a smaller gym, too, but we're fixing it up right now."

"This is really nice," Clarke said, peeking in. Two adult men were playing basketball, both of them sweating profusely. So either they were playing hard, or they'd been there for a while.

"Thank you," Indra said, obviously proud of her accomplishment. "It's still a work in progress, but I'm happy with the way it's going."

"What's going on in there?" Bellamy asked, gesturing to a smaller room down the hall where there appeared to be a class going on.

"Yoga," Indra replied. "Care to join?"

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm not that flexible." Then, motioning to Clarke, he added, "She is."

Her eyes flared momentarily, because . . . well, Bellamy knew better than anyone just how _flexible_ she could be.

"Bellamy!"

They both spun around when someone said his name. "Gaia, hey," he said as a young, African American girl with a thick head of dreadlocks approached.

"Hey, how are you?" she said, hugging him.

"I'm alright," he said. "Look at you. Your hair."

She shrugged. "Trying something new."

It was definitely a statement look, not exactly what Clarke would have pictured seeing in rural Louisiana. But the girl kind of rocked it, so it came off looking cool.

"My daughter Gaia," Indra explained while the girl began to talk to Bellamy about his mom and how sorry she was to hear about her passing. Bellamy nodded and said 'thanks' and stuff, but Clarke wondered if he at all resented the fact that most of the people who'd said they felt bad about his mom hadn't shown up to her funeral.

"Gaia and Bellamy graduated together," Indra went on. "She's a minister now at the church we go to."

For someone so young to have such an important job in the community . . . that was pretty impressive. "Wow, that's really neat," Clarke said, wondering if she'd ever be able to gush about her job. Maybe if she ended up going to college or something, but that just seemed . . . painstaking.

"Her faith is very important to her," Indra said.

Clarke nodded, then admitted, "I kind of stopped going to church a couple years ago. I should really start back up again."

"Well, you should come this Sunday," Indra suggested.

Clarke just smiled and said, "Hmm," not committing to anything. Because this Sunday, she'd already be gone.

"Come on, we'll let them catch up," Indra said. "I want you to see the pool."

Clarke followed Indra on down the hall, leaving Bellamy and Gaia to chat, but before they could get to the pool, another room caught her eye. "What's in here?" she asked, peering in at what looked like . . . a studio. There were mirrors on the front wall. And interestingly enough . . . there were three poles on the far side of the room. Two middle-aged women were in there right now, twirling around on them, whooping and hollering and having a grand old time, even though it was obvious neither of them knew what they were doing.

"That's our dance studio," Indra replied. "The only class we're offering right now is hip hop, but I'd love to offer more." Her phone vibrated, and when she looked at the screen, she politely said, "Would you excuse me? I have to take this."

"Yeah, go ahead." Clarke stayed in the open doorway of the studio while Indra headed off to take her call. She watched as one of the women attempted to spin around the pole but just sort of fell off instead. Both she and her friend laughed, and then they said something about calling it a day and began to pack up their backpacks.

Stepping into the studio, Clarke made her presence known with a simple, "Hi."

The women looked at her, and the larger of the two said, "Hello."

Clarke just stood there awkwardly for a moment before asking, "Are you guys trying to pole-dance?"

They both looked at each other and laughed. "Trying would be the key word, yeah," one of them said.

"Well, you should wear clothes that expose your skin more," Clarke advised. "It's not just like a stripper thing. It actually helps you get a better grip on the pole. So like spandex and a sports bra or something would work better."

The heavier woman patted her stomach and said, "Well, darlin', if I looked like you, I might be brave enough to wear that."

"No, you look great," Clarke assured her. She probably would benefit from the fitness aspect of pole-dancing, but having fun with it was probably a bigger priority for her.

"My stretch marks disagree with you," the woman said, "but thank you for saying that."

Clarke smiled.

"Do you know how to pole-dance?" the other woman asked her.

Even though it wasn't a skill she went around advertising, she'd sort of asserted herself as an authority on it already, so she went ahead and just answered honestly, "Yeah."

"And how'd you learn?"

"Well, I used to live in New York, and I was . . ." She trailed off, not sure if she should be _quite_ so honest with this response. But . . . what the hell? It wasn't like she'd ever see these women again. "I was a stripper," she confessed.

Much to her surprise, neither one of them stuck up their noses or looked at her in disgust. In fact, they both sort of gasped in astonishment and smiled. "Oh, honey, you should teach me some moves," the bigger one said. "I need to keep my husband satisfied."

Clarke laughed.

"Yeah, there's a lot of ladies in this town who'd love to learn a thing or two from you," the other one said. "You could give some lessons."

"Oh, I'm—I'm just visiting," Clarke stammered. No time for lessons. She had a flight to catch tomorrow. "If you get online, though, there's a lot of good stuff out there that can get you started."

"I just might do that," the bigger woman said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "Thanks, uh . . . ?" She trailed off questioningly.

"Clarke."

"Thanks, Clarke." Both the ladies smiled at her as they left, and one of them said, "Enjoy Trikru," while the other added, "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you, too." Clarke smiled to herself, so surprised that they hadn't reacted badly. Neither one of those women had said anything judgmental or looked down on her in any way for her past. It was . . . really refreshing. She could only hope people in Arkadia would be half as understanding.

They wouldn't be.

Her eyes settled on one of the poles, and she crossed the open studio floor and clasped one hand onto it. For a second, she was back at Grounders, not up on stage, but just in the practice room with Harper and some of the other girls. She remembered how _fun_ it had been to learn all those moves, to master them, perfect them. She'd even come up with some of her own tricks. Or at least she _thought_ they were her own, but maybe someone else had already done them.

Reaching down, she peeled her t-shirt over her head. She had a supportive sports bra on underneath, and it looked fine with her leggings. Even though she didn't have as much skin-to-pole contact as she normally would have, she climbed up onto it. _Just like riding a bike,_ she thought. This was something she was never going to forget how to do. And to be honest . . . she didn't really want to.

...

"You should come to church, Bellamy," Gaia insisted. "It'd be good for you."

"But I've never actually gone to church before," he protested.

"That's exactly _why_ it'd be good for you," she reasoned. "Spirituality can help a lot when dealing with grief."

He lowered his head and nodded, deciding not to rule it out.

"Think about it?" she said.

"Okay." He'd probably never be a weekly attendee at church or anything, but maybe once in a while . . . yeah, maybe once in a while he could go. "It was good to see you again, Gaia," he said.

"You, too." She gave him another quick hug, then said, "Glad you're back," as she headed into the office.

Catching up with old friends and classmates was good and everything, but Bellamy knew he could do that anytime. He actually didn't mind that the conversation with Gaia was over, because there was only one person he cared to spend time with today. "Clarke?" he said, figuring Indra had taken her out to the pool. It had a waterslide now, from what he'd heard, so that was pretty cool.

He headed down a narrow hallway in that direction, and he almost walked right past the open door to a room he didn't recognize. He'd gone just a step too far when he realized that he'd seen a flash of blonde hair in there, and he slowly backed up and looked inside.

There was Clarke, without her t-shirt on now, her hair flowing all around her face as she spun gracefully around a pole. She had some soft, melodic music playing from her phone, and she was just . . . she was just dancing. Not performing for anyone, but dancing just for herself. She arched her back and let go of the pole, holding on with clenched thighs, and to Bellamy, it looked like she was going in slow motion. She had her eyes closed, so she didn't notice him standing there when she spun in his direction.

"Well, look at that."

He glanced away only for a split second when Indra came up beside him and looked into the studio. But then his eyes found their way right back to her, watching in awe as she slowly slid down to her bare feet.

"You didn't tell me she was a dancer," Indra said.

He hadn't been planning on telling anyone, because he'd just figured she wouldn't want people to know. He watched some more as she gracefully walked around the pole, holding on with only one hand, then flung herself around it into one of those spiral-type spins. She'd told them what they were called once, because they were her favorite. What was it again, a corkscrew or something? She looked weightless, like a feather, like she was just floating, nothing holding her down.

"She's amazing," Indra said, obviously entranced by what she saw in there, but probably in a different way than he was.

"Yeah," he agreed, feeling the familiar thud of his heart in its chest as he gazed at her beautiful body wrapped around that pole. As vehemently as he'd been opposed to Clarke working at Grounders, he had to admit, getting to watch her dance like this for one last time . . . it felt like a privilege.

...

"Oh, I can't believe Indra saw me." Clarke covered her face as she and Bellamy waited for their food at The Lunch Bucket café that afternoon. "That's embarrassing."

"No, you looked good," he assured her. "She was really impressed."

 _Impressed?_ Clarke thought, her interest piqued. Impressive was Indra's own _daughter_ leading an entire congregation every Sunday. Impressive was Octavia making it into college despite all the obstacles life had set out for her. To know that Indra was _impressed_ by her dancing . . . it made Clarke feel kind of good. "Well, I've always said it can be a really beautiful form of dance," she said. "It just has a—a stigma attached to it, I guess."

"But you said those women were cool about it," he reminded her.

"Yeah, they were totally cool." She was still trying to wrap her mind around that. It'd just been so . . . out of the ordinary. "In fact, I think they thought _I_ was cool for knowing how to do it. They, like, seriously wanted me to teach them. I wasn't expecting that."

"Well, what were you expecting?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "I guess I just assumed people would be judgmental. Small towns, you know?"

"Well, Louisiana _is_ said to be one of the happiest states," he said.

"So, what, people are too happy to judge me?"

"Nah, I don't know." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and said, "It's not a bad town. There's a lot of good people here. It's just too bad my mom had to find the losers."

She gazed at him sympathetically, noting the brief flash of hurt in his eyes. "Some of those guys she knew were probably, like, passing through, though, right?" she assumed. Wasn't that kind of a common thing with prostitutes, to hook up with men who weren't from around there so their wives and girlfriends never found out about it?

"Yeah," he said. He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head as if to shake out the memories. "No, most of the guys here were raised by decent families, so it's not like . . . it's not like you're gonna find another Roan here," he said. "Or McCreary, or . . ." He trailed off, his eyes drifting up and down on her.

"Or the guys who attacked me?" she filled in. "It's okay, Bellamy. You can talk about it. It's alright." She'd had a couple of nightmares since then, but when she woke up from them, it wasn't like there was some dark cloud hanging over her day, and she fully expected the nightmares to become fewer and farther in between as time went on. "You know, I'm not _happy_ it happened, but . . . I'm okay," she insisted. "And I'll _be_ okay when I go home. We don't have Roans or McCrearys there, either."

He met her eyes, a look of seriousness on his face, and nodded.

"Although, we don't have a whole lot of people who are gonna be so open-minded about my stripping days," she went on. "That's gonna be rough."

"Ah, some other drama will start up soon," he predicted. "Then they'll forget all about it."

"Hopefully it's someone else's drama this time." She wasn't wishing scandal on anyone else necessarily, but it'd be nice to have a break.

Their waitress came up to their table in the middle of their conversation with a heaping plate of chicken nuggets for them. "Here you go," she said, setting it down in between them. "On the house."

"Oh, are you sure?" Bellamy asked.

"Yeah. It's your welcome home gift from us to you."

He smiled. "Thanks."

When the waitress left the table, Clarke wasted no time digging right in. "Free chicken nuggets? Score!" she exclaimed, plucking one off the top. They were a little oddly-shaped, and when she bit into it, something just sort of tasted . . . different. Not bad, but not what she'd expected. As she chewed, she realized what it was that she was eating. "This isn't chicken, is it?"

"Nope." He smirked.

"I'm eating alligator?"

"Yeah, how's it taste?"

She kept chewing, contemplating the taste and texture as she swallowed. "It's not bad," she decided. "I mean, I _prefer_ chicken, but . . . yeah, it's not as bad as I thought it would be."

"Here, dip it in this sauce. It's really good," he said, passing her a small bowl of what looked a lot like ketchup. It was probably some kind of special Cajun ketchup, though. Everything in Louisiana had its own flavor.

She plucked another nugget off the pile and dunked it in the sauce. He watched as she ate it and said, "Good, right?"

"Yeah, it's decent." Given the cost he'd mentioned, she doubted she'd be eating it as a snack anytime soon. But once in a while, if they were out at a place like this, there was nothing wrong with expanding her palate a little. "I'm glad I got to try it," she said, smiling at him a little. Alligator meat was just the tip of the iceberg, though. There were a lot of things she was glad she'd gotten to try with Bellamy. Including some things that made her blush.

...

Octavia dried the dishes while Bellamy washed them that night. Just like they used to do growing up. Just like old times. It gave them a chance to talk, so at least it didn't feel like much of a chore.

"So Clarke's leaving tomorrow morning, huh?" she said as she toweled off a plate.

"Yeah. I'm driving her to the airport." He scrubbed hard at a stain on the rim of a coffee cup, but it wouldn't come off, so he shrugged and set it down in the dry side of the sink.

"And what, then we never see her again?"

He kept his eyes focused on the sink in front of him, but he felt himself tense up at the thought.

"Oh my god," she groaned exasperatedly, setting the plate down on the counter. "Look, Bellamy . . . I don't know what went down between the two of you, but whatever it was, the girl set all of it aside just so she could be here or you for Mom's funeral."

Try as he might, he just couldn't concentrate on dishes when Octavia was talking about Clarke. He glanced into the living room, where she'd fallen asleep on the couch about a half an hour ago, her blonde hair sprawled out on the pillows.

"She's in love with you," Octavia stated simply. "And you're in love with her, too."

He stared at her, feeling thuds and pangs of longing in his chest. "I know," he said.

"So then why aren't you guys together?"

 _Because I gave her up,_ he thought, swallowing down his guilt. _Because I had to._ "It got complicated," he said, content to just be as vague as possible. "I want her life to be . . . easy. Better than what I can give her."

"So you're letting her go?" Octavia huffed in exasperation.

"It's for the best," he insisted.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, setting the dishtowel down on the counter. "I love you, big brother, but that's bullshit." She turned and headed straight for the front door, grabbing her keys off the coffee table on her way.

"Where are you going?" he asked her.

"To Ilian's," she replied, stopping at the door to step into her sandals. "You've got one more night to get Clarke back. I don't wanna get in the way of it." Smirking, she walked out the front door, and though the sound of it shutting caused Clarke to stir, she didn't yet wake up.

Even though he didn't feel like he _could_ get her back anymore, Bellamy couldn't deny wanting to spend this last night doing something _fun_ with Clarke. Something that felt meaningful, something they'd remember. Just sitting around watching TV or letting her sleep while he did the dishes wasn't going to cut it. So he pulled out the sink plug and let the water drain, washed off his hands, and made his way into the living room.

"Hey, Clarke," he said, kneeling down next to the couch. Giving her shoulder a gentle shake, he said her name again. "Clarke. Wake up."

She moaned sleepily and began to move. Suddenly, her eyes shot open, and she sounded almost panicked as she propped herself up on her forearm. "It's not time to leave, is it?"

"No, not yet." He glanced at the clock, trying not to start a mental countdown. He didn't want that looming over the night. "Come with me," he said. "I wanna show you something."

She squinted her eyes curiously, but he saw the traces of an intrigued smile on her lips.

...

Clarke wasn't sure where the hell Bellamy was taking her, but he seemed excited about it. He was driving them even more out to the middle of nowhere than his house was, and after about five minutes on farther back backroads, he told her to close her eyes. She did, but whenever she tried to sneak a peek, he caught her and pretended to get all mad. That usually made her laugh, and she closed them again.

When she felt the car stop, it was _so_ tempting to just open her eyes right away, but he made her keep them shut. He came around to the passenger's side, opened up the door for her, and helped her out. Then he led her forward, towards . . . something, she supposed.

"Alright, just a few more steps," he said, holding her hand as she walked.

"I hear water," she noted. In fact, it sounded like _falling_ water. "Where are we?"

"You'll see," he said. "Come on."

She hesitantly took a few more steps forward, almost expecting to step _into_ some water at some point. But finally, she felt something in front of her, a wooden railing of some sort, and he said, "Okay. Open your eyes."

Slowly, she did, and what she saw was . . . breathtaking. "Oh my god," she gasped as she looked around at some truly beautiful scenery. They were on an old wooden bridge, and below them was a stream, or like a very calm part of a river, lined by grass, shrubs, and flowers on both sides. In front of her was a rocky cliff, not too terribly tall, but tall enough to have some water falling from it. It was like a little, trickling waterfall. It looked like something straight out of a painting. "This is beautiful," she said, taking a moment to soak it all in. Kansas had some nice scenery, too, but not like this. Everything in this spot just looked so lush and so green, and the air around here smelled like a fresh rain.

"One of my town's hidden treasures," he said, standing beside her at the bridge's railing.

"I love it," she said, looking down at the clear water. "A little different than the Brooklyn Bridge, but . . ."

He chuckled. "Yeah." Gazing at the small waterfall, he reminisced, "I remember my friends and I used to come out here and jump off that cliff over there."

"You weren't scared?" she asked, wondering if it was dangerous.

"No. It was fun," he said. His eyes gleamed as he glanced between her and the water, and then he asked, "You wanna get in?"

"In—in the water?" she sputtered.

"Yeah." Already, he was peeling off his shirt.

"Is it cold?" she asked.

"No, it's summer. Everything's hot." He dropped his shirt down on the bridge, then unfastened his jeans.

"That's . . . very true," she said, trying not to get lost as he lowered his pants and his immaculately-sculpted body came into view. "Okay, are we jumping off the rocks, though?"

Grinning, he stepped out of his jeans. "You want to?"

What she _wanted_ to do was stare at the bulge in his underwear, but . . . swimming was good, too. "Yeah," she said, feeling like she might never get the chance to go swimming anywhere like this again.

"Then let's go." He motioned with his head for her to follow him as he walked further down the bridge. She pulled her shirt over her head on the way and shimmied out of her pants as she went, too. If she'd known they were going to do this, she would have worn a sexier bra and panties, just to . . . give him something to think about after she was gone.

Bellamy seemed to remember the terrain well as he led them up the rocks to a good jumping off point. He looked _so_ good barely wearing anything, but she couldn't afford to be distracted on such a slippery surface. At one point, she lost her footing, fell forward a bit, and he caught her. "Careful," he said. "Don't slip."

His hands were on her arm, holding her up, and her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest.

"Here, take my hand," he said, holding his out for her. She clasped her hand into it, grateful to have some help as they navigated the tricky cliff. Once they were up there, though, right on top of the gentle waterfall, her heart started to pound for a different reason: She was nervous. It hadn't looked very high up, and maybe it wasn't, but suddenly, it _felt_ high. "You ready?" he asked.

It couldn't have been any higher up than the balcony of her apartment had been, but still, she felt butterflies in her stomach. "It's gonna be cold, isn't it?" she guessed.

"No, it'll be fine," he insisted. "It's a leap of faith, Clarke."

She met his eyes for a moment, wondering if they ever would have met if she hadn't taken a leap of faith and moved to New York in the first place. Sometimes leaps were worth taking.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

"On three," he said. "One . . . two . . . _three_!" Hand in hand, they jumped off the cliff and down into the water, which hit Clarke like a thousand icy knives. When she resurfaced, he was nowhere to be seen.

"Bellamy!" she yelled.

Unable to see him, she _felt_ him under the water, swimming close to her as she treaded water. Finally, he came up for air, too, swiping his dark hair off his forehead.

"It's fucking cold!" she shouted.

He laughed, a clear indication that he'd known it would be and just hadn't told her.

"You jerk!" she yelped jokingly, splashing water at him. He splashed right back, and she forgot all about how cold that water was as they started to play around together. She tried to swim away from him, and he tried to pick her up and throw her in again. She fought back by trying to dunk him, but she wasn't very successful, and usually he ended up dunking her instead.

It was _so much fun._ More fun than she could remember having in a long, long time. She'd never imagined that she could feel so young and so carefree ever again, but out there in that water with Bellamy, underneath a bridge no other cars were driving across . . . she did.

She wasn't sure how long they swam, but gradually the cold water just became too much, and they had to get out. They went back to the car, and Bellamy took a blanket out of the trunk and wrapped her up in it. At sunset, they sat down on the bridge, legs dangling over the side, both of them still just in their underwear, drying off.

"You like this place?" he asked her.

"Yeah, I do." There was probably a lot of fish poop in that river, and maybe some animals she was better off not thinking about, but whatever. Despite feeling cold, it'd felt _good._

"I'm kinda glad to be back here," he admitted. "I don't think I realized how much I missed home."

"Well, you were gone for so long," she said. He'd made the big city his home, but . . . no, it didn't compare to this. It couldn't.

"What're you gonna do when you get back to Arkadia?" he asked her. "Who are you gonna see?"

"Um, well . . . my mom, obviously," she said, surprised that she was actually looking forward to that. It'd been almost nine months since she'd seen her mom face to face. Even though they'd had their differences, that was just too long. "And Harper and Monty and everybody." She smiled at the thought of being reunited with her friends. It would be easiest falling back into sync with Harper, finding that groove again. As for the others . . . Clarke was fully aware that they might never be able to look at her the same way again, particularly Maya. But she'd do her best to reintegrate.

"You gonna stay with your mom?" he questioned. "Or your dad?"

"I don't know." It might not be bad to be back in her old room for a couple nights, but she really wasn't looking to be living at home while her mom and Marcus Kane were in their honeymoon phase. "Maybe I can get my own place," she pondered.

"Alone?" He frowned.

She knew the thought of that made him worried, so she kindly reminded him, "It's Arkadia, Bellamy. Threat level's pretty low there."

He sighed heavily and said, "Right," as he looked down at his lap.

 _He looks . . . sad,_ she thought. In fact, he looked _really_ sad. Even though he'd been the one to tell her she needed to go back home, maybe he was changing his mind?

"It'll be good for you to be back there," he said, and all hopes of him reconsidering were immediately dashed.

"We'll see," she said, not quite as convinced as he was that her life back in Arkadia would be smooth sailing. "It's gonna be weird, though, being back around everyone again." Her voice dropped down into muffled tones as she added, "And not being with you." For months now, she and Bellamy had barely gone a day without seeing each other. Not having him around . . . it was gonna hurt. A lot. Even though she could rest assured that he was doing well back here.

"I'll miss you," she blurted suddenly, feeling increasingly vulnerable as they kept talking.

It took him a moment, but finally he murmured, "I'll miss you, too." And he didn't look at her as he said it. Maybe he couldn't.


	74. Chapter 74

_Chapter 74_

Later that night, Bellamy hauled a rickety old ladder out of the garage and climbed up on the roof. Just the roof above the porch, not the roof atop the second story or anything. That roof was on his to-do list of things to repair around the house. It was an old place, but it was theirs, his and Octavia's. He was going to maintain it, hopefully make it as nice as it had been when his mom had been growing up in it.

It was dark outside, and with no streetlights around, he had to have his car lights on just to make sure he was putting one foot right in front of the other. Occasionally, he knelt down and inspected anything that didn't look quite right up there, not that he was an expert or anything.

"Bellamy?" he heard Clarke say as she stepped outside.

"Up here," he said.

She whirled around and looked up. "What're you doing?"

For a second, he just had to take in the sight of her. She had on a loose t-shirt and some shorts, clearly dressed for bed. They'd both taken showers—separate ones, of course—upon arriving home, and her hair had dried since then, but it was still in waves over her shoulders.

"Octavia said we've got some loose shingles," he finally replied. "I'm trying to find 'em." He pressed his foot against a shingle that _looked_ kind of loose, but it barely budged.

"Did you, like, Tarzan your way up there or something?" she asked, laughing.

"No, I climbed a ladder." He motioned to the silver scrap of metal that, at one point in time, had actually had identifiable rungs.

"Oh."

"I wish I could just climb up here. That'd be sweet." He used to run around and climb trees all the time. Maybe that was why he'd never hesitated to climb on over from his balcony to hers.

"I'm coming up," she decided, heading towards the ladder.

"Be careful," he cautioned. That thing was anything but sturdy.

She climbed up a little more slowly than he had, and he went over there to offer his hand and help her up onto the roof. When she stood up, she looked out onto the front yard, illuminated only by the headlights of his car, and said, "Whoa. I've never been on a roof before."

"Really?" He took her hand, helping her walk along. "You never sat out on the roof with your guitar?"

"No. I should, though," she said. "Or I could sit out and draw."

He sat down with her towards the middle of the roof, legs dangling off the edge, and he wished now he hadn't turned the lights of his car on. Because it would have been pretty romantic just sitting out here with the girl he loved, illuminated only by the moonlight. "What would you draw?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "You, probably." Looking down at her lap, she mumbled, "You and me."

 _You and me,_ he thought, wondering if he'd given her enough memories to draw. She could draw today, the two of them on that bridge or swimming in that water. She could even draw them right now, up on the roof, spending their last hours together.

They settled into silence, a comfortable silence, for a minute before she turned to look at him and questioningly said his name. "Bellamy?"

He met her eyes.

She frowned almost knowingly as she asked, "That stuff about that check from my dad was a lie, wasn't it?" she guessed. "You didn't make him pay you to break up with me."

Crap, he'd really been willing to keep that a secret. For Jake's sake, for the sake of their relationship. But he couldn't lie to her about it now. He didn't want to. So he shook his head.

"So that was his doing then?" she said sadly. "Just him?"

Oh, he hoped she wouldn't resent her dad for that, but . . . he couldn't cover for the guy any longer. "Yeah," he said. "I didn't ask him for anything. And right after you left, I tore up the check. I never would've cashed it."

She hung her head and sighed deeply. "I figured. That just didn't seem like something you would do."

No, he'd definitely never put a price tag on Clarke. She was . . . priceless.

"But it's something he would do," she grumbled angrily. "Of course."

"Don't be mad at him," he urged her. "I know it seems low, but he's just trying to do whatever he has to do to look out for you. It's messed up, but . . . it's just 'cause he loves you." Hell, in a way, he understood where Jake was coming from. The guy was desperate, a feeling Bellamy knew well.

"He thinks he's gonna be able to fix me," she growled. "I just know that's what he's gonna try to do. And I don't mean to sound ungrateful, because I know you just lost your mom, and I still have both my parents, and they do love me. I know that. But I just . . . I don't know where I fit in with them anymore."

"Well, that's what you'll figure out," he assured her. Even though her life had gone in a different direction than either she or her parents had anticipated . . . they were still family. They'd work it out.

"I guess," she mumbled. She fell silent again for a moment, then looked back over at him. "So even though you didn't take the money," she said quietly, "was everything else you said to me true?"

 _Everything else?_ he thought as memories of everything else he'd said came swirling back into his mind. He'd said a lot.

"All that stuff about loving me being a burden and being exhausting and not being worth it to you . . ." she recapped for him. "Did you mean that?"

The way she said that . . . god, it broke his heart. There was this tone of pleading in her voice, like she was begging him to have not meant it. And he hadn't. He hadn't meant one word. "No," he answered honestly. It was a risk, telling her the truth after using lies to drive her away, but he couldn't end things with her any other way. He owed this girl the truth. She deserved at least that much. "I just . . . I felt like I had to say that to get you to go," he confessed. "So I did." He shrugged helplessly, knowing that there was no way he could ever take it back. He'd never be able to un-say those words. Even if he hadn't meant them, they'd stay with her, with both of them. "I don't expect you to forgive me," he said. "I know I was really harsh."

"You were," she acknowledged. But she didn't sound . . . mad. That was something. "You really hurt my feelings, Bellamy."

He grimaced slightly and nodded, owning up to that.

"It was just . . . you made it seem like you didn't care anymore. You made it seem like everything between us was just a lie."

"It wasn't," he assured her quickly. What he felt for her . . . it was the most _real_ thing he'd ever felt in his life. "I'm so sorry." If he thought there had been another way, he would've gone about it differently. But . . . there was no turning back time. Knowing Clarke, she'd forgive him, probably already had, but it was gonna be harder to forgive himself.

"But you still think I should go?" she asked, her voice squeaking once again with that pleading tone.

As much as it pained him to say it . . . "Yeah," he replied. "I still think it's for the best." It wasn't the city that was the problem anymore; it was him. Clarke deserved someone better than _him._

"But you still love me?" she asked him.

The fact that she even had to ask the question spoke volumes about just how badly he'd broken her heart when he'd broken up with her. "I'll always love you, Clarke," he said, unable to meet her eyes when he said that. Because if he did, he was afraid he'd get lost in them. She had such beautiful blue eyes.

She didn't say anything, but somehow, he felt like he could tell what she was thinking. She'd always love him, too. The sentiment radiated off of her in waves, and he couldn't _help_ but turn his head to the side and make eye contact with her again. _Dammit._ It wasn't just a look between them. Not this time. It felt like there was some electrical current between them, surging.

"It's late," he said. "We gotta be at the airport early. We should go to bed."

That look on her face . . . it told him she didn't wanna go to bed. "Right," she reluctantly agreed.

He just flung himself over the edge of the roof, making a small jump down onto the porch. She opted for the ladder, and he went over there to hold it steady for her. "Careful," he said again. "Watch your step."

"I used to climb a pole, Bellamy," she reminded him. "I'm pretty sure I can handle a ladder." Right as she said that, though, her foot slipped on one of the lower rungs, and she slipped right off the rickety old thing. Luckily, he caught her. "Thanks," she said as she turned around in his arms.

"Yeah." He could have let go of her right afterward, because both her feet were on the ground now, and . . . it wasn't like he _had_ to have his hands on her. But it felt so nice to feel the small of her back underneath her t-shirt, and to feel her chest against his. She was _so close,_ she was _right there_ , and . . .

He just wanted to kiss her.

It seemed like she wanted it, too, because she got this kind of dreamy look on her face, and her eyes honed in on his lips. She didn't make any effort to move, just let him keep holding her, and at one point, her eyes even fell shut, as though she were expecting him to feel his mouth against hers.

 _Don't do it,_ he told himself. That would only make things harder. "Get some sleep," he said, reluctantly taking his hands off of her, allowing her to stand on her own.

She opened her eyes, a look of pure disappointment in them, and she looked a little embarrassed to have gotten caught up in the moment like that. But hell, he'd gotten caught up, too.

That electrical current between them was pulsing so hard that it was to the point of being awkward, so she didn't even say goodnight as she scurried back into the house. He just stood there like a dumbass and watched her go, trying to ignore the way his fingers were tingling at the loss of the feel of her, trying not to think about that deep, guttural feeling swirling in the pit of his stomach. That feeling, some potent combination of lust and love . . . it was threatening to take over.

...

Clarke closed the door to the bedroom—the very bedroom Bellamy would probably reclaim once she left—feeling very confused. And a bit comforted. On the one hand, her little rooftop chat had given her some much-needed truths, including one pesky one about her father that she was going to confront him about when she returned home. And Bellamy had said he'd always love her. All that other stuff he'd said to her when they'd broken up . . . he hadn't meant that, and she'd sensed for days now that he hadn't meant a word.

But the confusing part was the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd let his hands linger on her when she'd almost fallen off that ladder. He'd been close to kissing her, right? She hadn't just been imaging that?

She leaned back against the door, running her hands through her hair. Breathing out a distressed sigh, she told herself not to think about it. There was no point in dwelling on what he'd _almost_ done, what _might_ have happened. The fact of the matter was, he hadn't kissed her, and that was that. And maybe it was better that way. Maybe it'd be easier to leave tomorrow if they stayed like this: friends. They'd been friends once, before they'd ever become something more. And sure, they weren't gonna be the types of friends who talked a whole lot, but maybe once in a while . . . maybe she could text him and see how she was doing. Maybe he could come visit when Monty and Harper inevitably tied the knot someday. Maybe this split didn't have to be so final, and maybe there was hope that somehow, someday . . .

Maybe they could still get their someday.

She slumped towards the bed, trying to balance out her hopefulness with some semblance of realism. For every possibility of her and Bellamy getting back together, there was also a possibility that they wouldn't. And she needed to come to terms with that.

She pulled back all the covers, prepared to crawl into bed and at least attempt to shut her thoughts off for the night, when there was a knock on the bedroom door. And it couldn't be Octavia, because Octavia wasn't home.

 _Bellamy . . ._ she thought wistfully, practically running to the door. _Bellamy._

She flung it open, and there he stood on the other side, a look on his face she wasn't sure she'd ever seen before. She barely even had time to process it before he took one big step into the room, closed the distance between them, and crashed his mouth onto hers.

Stunned, startled, but not at all displeased, she kissed him back fervently. Her arms found his shoulders and biceps as his hand cupped her cheek. Together, they stumbled backward, stepping on each other's feet, tripping and falling against each other. _Nothing_ about it was graceful, but hell if she cared. He wasted no time grabbing the bottom of her t-shirt and pulling it over her head. She barely even realized what was happening until all of a sudden her arms were up in the air and the fabric of that shirt was sliding against her wrists. He tossed it onto the floor, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as their mouths resumed their frenzied kisses.

His hands felt so big, so rough, and so warm splayed against her naked back. She thought for a minute that he might hoist her up and carry her to the bed, until she felt the mattress hit the back of her knees. She practically fell down on top of it, and he went with her, both of them just one big uncoordinated mess as they tried to keep kissing and as their hands roamed all over each other greedily.

There was a lot more for her to touch and appreciate when he broke their kiss suddenly, sat back a bit, and tore his shirt over his head. His tan, sculpted chest and abdomen came into view, and she just had to touch him, all of his muscles. His body was so firm and so hard compared to hers. She loved it.

Lying back, propped up on her forearms, she wriggled and snaked her way upward on the bed so that her head could be on a pillow. He lay down on top of her, and instinctively, she spread her legs so he could settle in between them. He didn't even bother trying to conceal his desire as he rubbed his crotch against hers. His was still bound by jeans, but hers was covered by only a cotton pair of shorts and thin panties underneath. She dug her head back into the pillow and groaned wantonly as she felt his stiff bulge, a telltale sign of his arousal.

Bellamy's hand slid up the slender column of her throat, smoothing around to cup the back of her neck, and when he bent his head forward, his lips latched onto the skin right over her pulse point. He pressed heated, suctioned kisses to her flesh, but he didn't stay there long. He was almost sloppy as he kissed his way down to her collarbone, then down even further to her exposed chest. Her nipples were already pert, waiting for his attention, and he lavished them eagerly, alternating back and forth between breasts as he sucked them into his mouth and then licked and nipped at them.

"Uh . . ." she groaned, arching her back up off the bed so she could push into his face. "Oh, god." He'd slithered down to the point where she could no longer feel his denim-clad groin pressing against hers, but just feeling his hot, talented mouth sucking on her tits . . . it drove her wild. And whenever he had to leave one to focus on the other, he covered it up with his hand, squeezing and kneading her compliant flesh.

On a normal night, Bellamy probably could have spent a good ten or twenty minutes on her breasts, but there was a sense of rush to all this, like some unspoken belief between the two of them that they just had to do this, that they couldn't stop and think too much about it. So when he slipped his arms underneath her back and rolled them over so that she was on top, she didn't question it. She straddled him, using the change in position as an excuse to rub her covered pussy against his stomach, creating some amazing friction while her breasts hung in his face and he sucked on them.

Part of her felt like she could come before he even got her fully undressed, and she wouldn't have hated that. But this sudden onslaught of sensation had her dripping, and she knew he could feel her wetness soaking through her clothes.

 _Fuck me,_ she tried to say as she slid down, swiveling her hips right over his erection now. God, she wanted him to put it in. Even though sex wouldn't just magically fix everything and this was probably more of a memorable goodbye than anything else, she wanted to feel him so bad.

No longer distracted by her breasts, he reached around and grabbed her ass. Those damn shorts were still in the way, though, and he growled frustratedly, dug his fingers into the waistline, and dragged them down the curve of her backside. He'd only lowered them, not removed them, when he grabbed at her ass again. This time, through only the thin fabric of her panties, he could give her a good squeeze. She felt the warmth of his hands there, felt it straight to her core, and she loved it when he slipped his fingers underneath her underwear to _really_ massage her. What started out as him touching her ass quickly became him touching her pussy, sneaking his hands down in between them to slide his finger against her folds or use his thumb to circle her clit. He even pressed his middle finger up into her for a second, but he withdrew it almost immediately. Probably just checking to see how wet she was. Well, she was soaking.

"Bellamy . . ." she whispered, unable to formulate any other words. Luckily, he didn't need to hear any to understand. He took the sides of her panties in his skilled hands and lowered them, too. Then, in a surge of motion, he flipped them back over so that he was once again on top, and he dragged both her shorts and her underwear down past her knees, along her calves, to her ankles. She flicked the shorts off, but before she could do the same with the underwear, he sat back, lifted her legs up, and put them over one of his shoulders. His eyes seared into hers as he pressed a soft kiss to her ankle and his hands smoothed across her thighs.

She could smell her own arousal, so when Bellamy finally plucked the panties off her ankle and tossed them aside, she was relieved. But he still had his pants on, and even in the dark room, she could see his dick pressing hard from the inside, trying to get out. It wanted to be inside her, and she wanted the same thing.

He held her legs in his hands, positioning her to his liking as he spread them open again. Once more, he lay down on top of her, and he resumed kissing her in this position where he could rub himself against her. The scrape of his denim against her pussy made her quiver in anticipation.

His kisses were a little less frantic now, but no less insistent as his tongue dove into her mouth, swirling and mingling with hers. He started to plunge it in and out with every deliberate rub from his hips, perhaps mimicking what their lower bodies were going to do. Her fingers grazed his arms, his sides, and his back as she waited for him to get undressed, but he seemed lost in making out with her.

Moaning into his mouth, she tried to wordlessly communicate her desire as she lifted her feet, trying to hook her toes into the waistline of his pants. It didn't really work, but it was enough for him to get the hint, and when he lifted his head and just gazed down at her for a minute, she saw this unwavering understanding in his eyes. He knew her inside out. He knew what she wanted.

Sitting back, he once again kept his eyes locked onto hers as he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. She flashed back to their first time together, because it felt so much like that. Him just smoldering, her just surrendering to it because she knew she was in the hands of a master. She watched in interest as he took off his jeans and kicked them to the floor. Seeing him in tight, black boxer briefs now felt different than seeing him in them at the bridge had, because at the bridge, he hadn't been so turned on like this. Bellamy's bulge was quite the sight even when he wasn't aroused, but when he was . . . good God, it made her pussy drip, and she couldn't help but reach down and touch herself.

"No," he growled low in this throat, grabbing her hand and pulling it away. He got this look of determination on his face as he slithered down the bed to the point where he was lying with his head between her legs. Clearly he wanted to do it himself.

As much as she wanted to feel him inside her, there was no _way_ she was turning down a thorough tonguing from Bellamy Blake. So she spread her legs open wide and whimpered in ecstasy when she felt his mouth on her, clamping down on her pussy for the first time in what felt like a long time. He kissed her lower lips much in the same way he kissed her mouth, and then he started using his tongue to lick up and down her folds. Nice long, flat strokes, just the way she liked it. He used his thumb to play with her clit while he pressed his tongue up into her, _really_ demanding entry as he tasted her. He breathed hotly against her, and the feeling of that alone was enough to make her quiver.

"Oh god," she gasped, clutching first at the sheets, then at the pillow beneath her head. Bellamy's mouth felt so damn _good_ , like a wet cavern just swallowing her up. There was no way she was going to make it to regular sex without cumming, so she reached down and grabbed a clump of his hair, holding his head steady so she could grind and rub her pussy against his face. He kept his tongue out, so anytime she pressed down, she felt it poking into her, and dammit if that didn't just feel _so_ damn good that she had to move faster and press down even harder.

He let her do that for what felt like a couple minutes, but eventually, he seized control again, putting one of his hands on her hip to still her. She let go of his hair and just lay back, reveling in the feel of his lips on her pussy, his tongue sliding all over her and into her. His face was covered in her juices even before she came. When it happened, it happened suddenly. One second, she was just starting to feel it build up, and then the next, she just felt like something in her body had exploded. She shuddered and cried out, and he lapped and licked at her greedily as it tore through her, leaving her limp in its aftermath. God, had she really forgotten how good that felt? Or did this time just feel even better?

Poor Bellamy. It wasn't uncommon for him to wind up with his head between her legs and his hips pressed painfully into the mattress. When he sat up, she was amazed by just how hard he was. He actually winced as he took off his underwear, but when his cock was finally free, he smiled dazedly and gave it a few strokes.

 _Put it in me,_ she thought desperately, watching with intrigue as he spread his pre-cum all around his shaft. _Oh god, Bellamy, please put it in me._ She kept her legs spread and tried to elevate her hips a bit to make it easier on him, but he did that himself when he put a pillow under her hips. Moving forward on his knees, he gave her a semi-questioning look. At first, she wasn't sure why, but when he teased her pussy with just the head of her cock and didn't press in, she understood the uncertainty. They didn't have a condom, except for those old ones on his desk, but who knew if they were still any good? She rolled her hips against the head of his cock, letting him know it was okay. They'd gone without condoms before, and besides . . . if this ended up being the last time, she wanted to really _feel_ him.

With his question answered, he guided his cock into her, not exactly slowly, but not fast, either. It seemed like he wanted to savor it, that initial feeling of being joined with her. And why wouldn't he? It was such a rush. Feeling herself open up and stretch to make room for him . . . it never felt anything short of amazing.

If he'd _just_ wanted to fuck her, he would have stayed like that, sitting upright on his knees, in the perfect position to hold her legs open and just plow her like a field. But when he bent forward, lying down on top of her his face hovering mere inches from her own, she realized he didn't just wanna fuck. He wanted to make love.

It wasn't like they were doing this for the first time or anything, so there was no need to go too slow. He didn't exactly pound into her right away, though, either. His thrusts were smooth and steady, and her natural lubrication and the fact that she'd already cum once made the movements easy. He slid into her like he belonged there—because he did—and breathed heavily as he kept up his rhythm. He held himself up on his forearms to keep from crushing her, but his chest still slid against hers, mixing their sweat.

"Oh, yeah," she moaned to spur him on, squeezing his arm muscles and wrapping her legs around his waist. "Oh, Bellamy . . ."

This guttural groan rose up from him when she said his name, and he started to move a bit faster, making the mattress squeak now, the same way the mattress in his apartment had. His thrusts deepened, and she felt even more of him sliding in and out of her. His girth was substantial, but not to the point of being painful. She'd gotten so used to the feel of him that it all just felt natural, the way it was meant to be.

"Fuck," he grunted, momentarily burying his face against the side of her neck. He stopped moving for a moment, just lay there with her, then swooped her into his arms again and changed positions so that she was back on top. His cock almost slipped out of her, but she pressed her hips down against him to prevent that from happening. With him still nestled snugly inside, she took control and began rocking her hips back and forth, sliding up and down on him. She kept her chest plastered to his but threw her head back, losing herself in the sensation. If she'd wanted to, she could have sat up and _really_ ridden him right now, but she wanted to stay close to him like this, wanted to feel all of his body heat against hers, wanted him to be able to wrap his arms around her if he wanted to.

"You're so good," he whispered, stroking her hair. He lifted his head up and gave her just one messy kiss, but it made her smile, because something about it was just so sweet. Bellamy knew how to make her feel utterly desired and utterly adored all at the same time. And she'd never felt anything like it before.

His hands roamed all over her, sometimes just ghosting her skin, like they did when he lightly traced her spine with his fingertips. Other times, he touched her more insistently, like he did when he slid his fingers down her crack and teased her asshole by inserting just one. She smiled and laughed a bit, hoping he had some lube around here, because . . . well, she wasn't going to say no to that tonight.

She lost all sense of time as rocked up and down on his cock, but it seemed to have given him the momentary rest he needed to keep going. Because when she sat up a little, he started jerking his hips up into her, hard. His thrusts were fast and determined, the kind where their skin slapped together and her tits bounced. She just sat there and enjoyed it, the sudden rapid-fire fucking, but she wasn't surprised when he reversed their positions yet again and got back on top of her. She whimpered as his cock slipped out of her, but he just shoved it right back in, got right back into the missionary position, and resumed thrusting. He moved quicker this time and didn't slide as far out. If anything, he pressed even further _in_. She opened her legs as far as she could to make room for him, and when she felt him bottom out, she inhaled sharply and dug her fingernails into his arms. He'd only been this deep a couple of other times, and it was _definitely_ a sensation she couldn't quite explain. All she knew was that she felt so full, and his balls were knocking against her pussy, and the very idea of there being absolutely no space between her body and his drove her absolutely _wild._

"Bellamy," she choked out, feeling dizzy with pleasure as the headboard began to hit the wall. She was going to cum again, she just knew it, but he had to know it, too. Her body usually started to spasm a bit as her climax approached, and that was what it was staring to do right now. Her stomach muscles fluttered, her breathing was starting to come in ragged pants, and her hands couldn't decide if they wanted to grip the sheets, her own hair, or his body. She ended up holding onto the pillow with one hand, his waist with the other as her orgasm shot out through her all her limbs. It was less of an explosion this time, and more of a huge wave. It just rippled through her, all the way to her fingertips and toes. Her pussy clenched and unclenched around his cock on its own accord, and he stopped moving while she experienced it. She made a whole lot of unintelligible noises and sounds, and probably some faces she'd regret if she could see them, but it didn't matter. It felt so _good_.

As she was coming down from it, Bellamy's was just beginning. He resumed his deep, hard thrusts into her, but he did pull just a little further out since he knew she was sensitive right now. Once again, he pressed his face into her neck, the way he often did when they were in this position, and with only a few more thrusts, he came, too, following her right over that edge. It was an amazing thing to feel Bellamy cum without a condom on, because she swore she could feel a warmth inside her. She could feel every pulsation of his cock as he shot his release into her. Every erratic jerk of his hips just ricocheted through her, and even though he tried to hold himself up, he sort of just slumped against her when he was done, gasping for air.

She was content to just lie there with him if that was what he needed. He could use her breasts as a pillow, and she could smooth his sweat-soaked hair off of his forehead. But when he lifted his face, he still seemed more focused on her than anything else. He kissed her softly, his mouth lingering against hers. He was still inside her, and he seemed content to stay that way.

 _Good,_ she thought, still enjoying the feeling herself. So what if she had a flight to catch tomorrow morning? That wasn't gonna stop her from staying up with him all night.


	75. Chapter 75

_Chapter 75_

It seemed like it'd been a long time since Bellamy had woken up with Clarke lying next to him. It hadn't been, not really. But still . . . it felt that way. So when he started to wake up that morning, and he felt her naked body curled up into his, felt the weight of her leg draped over his thighs and the wisps of her hair sprawled over his arm . . . god, that felt good.

He tried not to move around much as he opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her head was on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his chest. Her hand was on his stomach, and he couldn't help but think how empty it looked without that promise ring there. It'd been a stupid ring, no doubt, and if he'd had any money, he would have gotten her something real instead of using a prize from the claw machine. But she'd always liked it, at least until she'd felt like she couldn't wear it anymore. Until she'd felt like he destroyed that promise.

He covered her hand with his own, hoping to just lie there with her for a few minutes. They'd probably have to get up soon. It was still dark outside, but they had to leave for the airport while it was dark in order for her to . . . for her to catch her flight on time.

Gulping, he felt the reality sink back in. Last night didn't change anything. She was still leaving, and that was probably still for the best, and . . . it wasn't like sex would change things.

He heard he front door open and close, followed by footsteps on the stairs, and he knew Octavia had gotten home. Which probably meant it was 3:00 a.m. or something. She liked to hang out with Ilian at all hours of the night.

The door to the bedroom was hanging wide open, but he didn't have it in his heart to untangle himself from Clarke and try to go close it. Besides, he didn't have a stitch of clothing on under those blankets. Why scar Octavia any more than she was about to be scarred?

When she got to the top of the stairs, she looked in at them and groaned, "Ugh, gross. My eyes are burning." Shielding her eyes with one hand, she reached for the doorknob with the other and pulled it shut. The sound of that caused Clarke to stir, and gradually, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"Hey," she said, smiling a little.

"Hey." He smiled back at her, wishing they could just go back to sleep, or spend all day in this bed tangled up in each other. But when he finally did glance at the bedside clock, he noticed it was 3:27. Even later than he'd thought. With the time it took to get to the airport, they were going to have to leave soon. They probably should have already gotten up by now.

At 3:30, as they both still lay there, reluctant to move, an alarm on Clarke's phone went off. It was on the desk, out of their reach, so she got up to shut it off. And that pretty much signaled the start of the day. Bellamy got up, too, quickly put on his underwear, and told Clarke he'd let her get ready as he grabbed the rest of his clothes and headed downstairs. He got ready in the bathroom down there while she got ready upstairs. Neither one of them took a shower, even though they both probably needed to. There just wasn't a whole lot of time.

Although it was late—or early, depending on one's perception of time—Octavia hadn't gone to bed yet. She came downstairs while he was grabbing a quick granola bar for breakfast and seemed shocked when he told her that they were still getting ready to head to the airport. "Wait a minute, I don't get it," she said. "You guys got it on last night, but she's still leaving?"

"It was . . . a goodbye," he said, feeling extremely weird talking about his sex life with his little sister.

"Oh, that's funny," she said. "You know how I say goodbye to people? I open my mouth and use words."

He rolled his eyes, not at her, but at himself for coming up with such a lame explanation. Last night had been . . . spontaneous. He didn't exactly know what it had been. "It doesn't change anything," he said.

"Like hell it doesn't!" Octavia shrieked, continually trying to step in front of him and get in his way as he moved around the kitchen, grabbing any small snacks that he thought Clarke might want on the airplane. "She's the one for you, Bellamy."

"Well, what if I'm not the one for her?" he blurted, whirling to face his sister. That was kind of the crux of his problem, wasn't it? He loved Clarke and wanted to be with her, but what if there was something better out there for her, some _one_ better?

"What if you are?" she shot back. She had this intense look in her eyes, like she was just begging him to see things the way she did, to see himself the way she did.

Clarke came downstairs before he could respond, lugging her overstuffed duffle bag, which would never pass as a carry-on, so they'd have to make sure she had time to check her luggage, too. "I think I've got everything," she said, setting it down at the foot of the stairs before she joined them in the kitchen. "Sorry you saw . . . what you saw this morning, Octavia," she apologized.

"It's fine," Octavia said, waving it off. "You're really leaving?"

Clarke nodded slowly, sadly. "Yeah. My dad's expecting me. And my mom's wedding's in a couple days, so . . ." She trailed off, glancing quickly at Bellamy, then at the floor. She looked so unsure.

"Well, you're gonna come back and visit," Octavia said, a hint of questioning even in her voice even before she added, "Right?"

Clarke attempted to smile, but it wasn't a very convincing one. "We'll see," she said, opening her arms to give Octavia a hug. "Good luck in college, okay?"

"Thanks," Octavia said, sniffling. "I'm gonna need it."

Bellamy wasn't about to mention anything to his sister about the fact that she had tears in her eyes just now, but she very clearly did, and that said something about how much she actually liked Clarke. Octavia didn't have the best relationships with girls close to her age. In fact, she didn't have a whole lot of friends. For her to get along with Clarke like this really meant something.

Clarke sighed after she and Octavia released each other, and she looked at Bellamy expectantly. "You ready?" she asked.

 _No,_ he thought. _No, I'm not ready._ But he forced himself to say, "Yeah," just to avoid making this whole thing even harder than it already was, and he led the way through the living room to the door. He grabbed her bag on the way, slung it over his shoulder, and carried it out to the car.

...

The New Orleans airport was apparently forty-five minutes away. Which made for a bit of a drive. Clarke spent most of it staring out the window, trying to hold herself together and not become a blubbering mess as she thought about what awaited her. Up until now, it hadn't seemed quite real that she was really _leaving_ Bellamy here. She'd only spent a few days in Trikru, but they'd been comfortable days, even lazy ones. Even the day of the funeral, it was like all the hustle and bustle she'd grown so accustomed to had just shut itself off for her time in that town, and things had felt nice and simple. Easy. For once.

"I'm sorry," Bellamy blurted out suddenly.

She looked over at him, confused. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his eyes glued to the road in front of him. "About last night."

The mere _mention_ of last night made her heart speed up.

"I shouldn't have . . ." His jaw clenched, and he shook his head. "That shouldn't have happened."

Hearing him say that . . . it actually hurt. Because she thought of how his hands had felt on her skin, how his lips had felt on her neck, how his whole body had felt on top of hers, and there was no way she would have given all that up. For anything. "It was one of the best nights of my life," she confessed quietly.

He hesitated a moment, almost as if he were trying to build up some sort of emotional barrier between them, but when he said, "Mine, too," that barrier crumbled.

"Then why would you apologize for it?" She'd felt _so_ connected to him last night that she hadn't even been thinking about any of this, anything that awaited her. She hadn't been worried about it. She'd just been totally and completely in the moment with him, and that seemed like a pretty rare and beautiful thing.

"Because . . ." he said, pausing for a moment. "It just makes this harder."

She gazed at him sadly, understandingly, because . . . yeah, she was feeling it, too. It was never going to be easy, but he was right. Making love to each other last night did make letting go even more difficult. And she knew, deep down, that she was still hoping he'd change his mind and ask her to stay.

...

There was a whole mess of construction in the parking lot, which delayed them even further. Luckily, with it being so early in the morning, the American Airlines counter wasn't swarming with people yet, so they were able to get Clarke's bag checked and get her boarding pass after only about fifteen minutes of waiting in line. The security lines were a little longer, but it still wouldn't take too much time to get through. She'd get to her gate before they started boarding. No problem.

"This is as far as I can go," Bellamy said, part of him wishing that he could go farther. But this was probably for the best. If he actually sat at that gate with her, she might not end up getting on the plane.

She stood in front of him, her head down, a sad look on her face.

"Tell Harper I said hi, okay?" he said, trying to perk her up a bit by reminding her that she still got to reunite with her again. Not to mention her other friends.

She sniffed back tears, lifting her head so she could look at him. "Yeah, I will."

He nodded. "And tell your dad . . ." Well, shit, what was there to tell a guy like Jake Griffin? "I don't know. Think of something good. Tell him I said it."

That got the smallest hint of a smile out of her, but it vanished as quickly as it'd appeared. "This is really hard," she said, her eyes shining with tears.

Understatement. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, even harder than breaking up with her in the first place. Because he wasn't hiding behind a veil of lies anymore. He was glad he'd been honest with her and let her know that he hadn't meant the things he'd said, but that'd made it easier to convince her to go. He could just tell that, right now, even though she was trying to be strong, she wanted him to change his mind. And if he did, she wouldn't get on that plane. She'd stay with him, and they'd have another night just like last night.

"You'd better go," he said, trying to push aside all the temptation to be selfish and put a stop to this. "Gotta have time to find your gate."

She let out a shaky, disappointed exhale, nodded in agreement, and then threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. He hugged her back, inhaling the scent of her hair for what might very well be the last time, trying to memorize the feel of her body pressed close to his. Like he'd ever forget.

When she let go, it felt like his heart was ripping out of his chest. He watched her take a few steps in the direction of the ever-growing security line, but then she turned back around, said, "What the hell?" and came towards him again. She cupped his face in both hands and kissed him, catching him off guard. It wasn't a deep kiss, but her lips lingered against his, and he was pretty sure neither one of them breathed until she stepped back. There it was then, huh? One last kiss.

She blinked back her tears as they started to fall, and it looked like she had to force herself to turn her back to him and walk into that security line. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed planted right there, his eyes never leaving her as she slowly moved forward with all those other people. She kept stealing glances over her shoulder, never truly making eye contact, but always trying to peek. When she got to the point where she had to take her shoes off and had to put them in a bin with her purse, she turned all the way back around and looked at him, this desperately sad look in her eyes. He didn't know what to do, so he sort of . . . waved. Which was dumb. That girl was the love of his life, and he was waving goodbye?

After that, she stepped into the security scanner, got through without problem, and he lost sight of her when she moved on to the other side of the line. He could still sort of see her blonde hair as she collected her purse and put her shoes back on, but there were other people in the way, people who were leaving, going somewhere else just like she was. People who were perhaps going to come back.

 _That's it,_ he thought, resigning himself to leaving. There was no reason for him to stick around now, no reason to keep standing there. She wasn't going to come running back, and that was . . . that was for the best. It was all for the best.

He made it back to his car before he broke down, slumped over the steering wheel and started to cry. It just sucked. The whole thing sucked so much. He'd never expected their relationship to end this way. Hell, there had been a time when he'd just never expected their relationship to end at all. And the last thing he'd expected was to voluntarily let her go. But . . . he just had to.

He had to let her go.

...

Clarke felt like she was in a daze as she went through the motions of boarding the plane. She waited until her boarding group was called, then got up and got in line, ticket in hand, ready to be scanned. The woman at the gate smiled and said "Have a nice flight," and she couldn't even respond.

When she got on the plane, the flight attendants greeted her with their trademark smiles, but she must have looked like a zombie. She found her seat, right by the window, sat down, and opened up the magazine tucked into the back of the seat in front of her. There was nothing worth looking at, so she quickly put it away and looked out the window, watching as bags were loaded into the plane. She was pretty sure she saw hers.

A grey-haired man sat down beside her, said hello, and she said "Hi," back, but that was the extent of their conversation. After that, he got on his phone, and she went back to looking out the window, watching as some other planes took off in the distance.

 _Am I really doing this?_ she thought as all sorts of doubt an uncertainty crept through her. _Am I really leaving?_

When the plane started to move, she realized that, yes, she was. And when it went up into the air, she knew there was no turning back. As they ascended, she looked down at the ground, watching as the cars grew smaller and smaller, to the point where she could no longer even really make them out. Bellamy was down there somewhere, but he was so far away now. She couldn't see him.

She couldn't even see him.

Growing sadder by the second, she pulled the shade down on the window so she didn't have to look outside anymore.

...

The plane jolted, and Clarke's eyes snapped open. She heard the loud screech of the breaks and jostled around in her seat a bit as they touched down. She didn't even remember falling asleep, but apparently she'd been asleep for a while, because the last thing she remembered was leaving Dallas after a short layover.

She groaned, twisting her neck to try to work out the crick in it.

"Rough landing," the woman beside her remarked.

Clarke opened up the window shade and looked out, feeling an immediate sense of familiarity with the flat landscape. Kansas City was pretty big as far as Midwest cities went, but it was still Kansas, so it was still a part of the Great Plains.

"Welcome to Kansas City, everyone," the pilot's voice came over the intercom. "As you can see, it's a bit of a dreary day, but the temperatures are nice. We do hope you enjoyed your flight with American Airlines. Please wait until the fasten seatbelt sign is turned off to retrieve any luggage from the overhead compartments, and stay seated until it's time to exit the plane."

 _Dreary indeed,_ Clarke thought as raindrops splattered against the window. The sky was cloudy, which made everything sort of look kind of grey. A far cry from the pretty little river she and Bellamy had jumped into yesterday.

Since she was towards the back of the plane, she had to wait a while to get off. But it wasn't like she was in any huge hurry. She ended up being the very last person to exit the plane, and since security was so rigid in airports these days, it wasn't like anyone was just standing there to greet her when she set foot in the airport. She had to walk through an entire concourse and go down an escalator to get to the security lines. She saw her parents, both of them, much to her surprise, standing on the other side. Her mom saw her first, pointed her out, and squeezed her father's arm excitedly.

 _Here we go,_ she thought, bracing herself. It wasn't strange seeing her dad, but seeing her mom face to face for the first time in nine months was head-spinning. Her hair was less of the golden brown it'd been when Clarke had left and more chestnut now. Newly-dyed for the wedding, probably.

"Oh, Clarke! Come here!" her mom exclaimed, beaming a tearful smile and opening her arms as Clarke approached. "Oh, look at you!" she said as she hugged her. "Oh, I've missed you so much."

Even though Clarke had made the choice to leave, and even though her and her mother's relationship had definitely become strained . . . she couldn't deny that she'd missed her, too.

When it was time to hug her dad, he was a lot calmer about everything. He simply said, "Hi, sweetheart," and gave her a quick embrace and kiss on the cheek.

"Hi," she said, figuring she'd wait to grill him about the whole money thing. For now, she wasn't about to ruin this very rare moment she had with _both_ her parents. Hadn't had one of those for a while.

"How was your flight?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "It was fine." Not that she'd been awake for any of the second one.

"Layover wasn't bad, right?"

"Nope." She'd spent most of the layover in Dallas people-watching, trying not to picture every dark-haired guy as Bellamy.

"Well, it's good to have you home," her father said.

"So good," her mother agreed. "You don't even know how glad I am to have you back."

 _Back,_ Clarke thought. _I'm . . . back._ She'd left this town with Finn, but now Finn was still in New York, and she'd returned. Everything had changed. "Um, I have to go get my bag," she told them.

"Okay," her mother said. "We'll go with you." She linked her arm with Clarke's, and she just started to babble as they headed towards the luggage pick-up. Clarke didn't really say a whole lot, but she tried to listen. Her mom was very excited to see her, which was nice. Bellamy's mom would have never . . .

Once she got her bag, they went out to the car, and Clarke couldn't help but notice that her dad had chosen to drive their old van, which he lovingly called Old Reliable. It'd always been their vacation van back when she'd been younger, but once his business and her mom's private practice had really taken off, they'd both purchased nicer cars, and Old Reliable barely saw the light of day anymore. Clarke couldn't recall the last time she'd gone anywhere in it. But her dad must have been trying to evoke all the family feels, because there it was. It sputtered on the startup, but he promised it'd get them home.

Her mom sat in the back with her, which was a notable difference from the family vacations. She remembered being a little girl, sitting in the backseat and seeing them hold hands while her father drove. Her mother had controlled the radio, and they'd all sung along to country music. It'd all been so ridiculously storybook and wholesome that it didn't even seem real anymore.

"So how's it feel to be back?" her father asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

"Strange," she admitted. The farther they drove from Kansas City, the more the terrain just opened right up. It looked different than Louisiana had, smelled different, too. Lots of corn and cows mixed in with the scent of the rain.

"I bet it's kind of nice, though," her mother said, reaching over to stroke her hair. Clarke wasn't sure if she was trying to work out a tangle or not. "It's like they say: There's no place like home."

Clarke tried not to show a reaction to that, but it made her think of _The Wizard of Oz,_ Dorothy clicking her famous red shoes together. And she remembered one of the first conversations she'd ever had with Bellamy, in her Cadillac as she drove him to work her first night in the city. He'd called her Dorothy and said that the city was the Land of Oz for her. He'd told her there were no wizards there.

He'd been right.

Driving back into Arkadia felt so weird, because it was the town Clarke had known and grown up in her entire life, and nothing looked that different. But at the same time, it all _felt_ different. Her mom and dad both caught her up on a lot of the things that had been happening since she'd left—nothing major, just somebody catching a home run at a Royals game and somebody else selling their house. Clarke wasn't an idiot, and she knew that most of what was happening was gossip. Gossip about _her._ They were just trying to shield her from that by trying to make her think people were talking about other stuff, but as if.

When they got to the house and she climbed out of the car, she sort of just stood there with her bag at her feet, staring at the outside of the house, thinking how huge it looked compared to what her apartment had been. Bellamy's house in Trikru was big, too, but not like this. It was ridiculous how many rooms they had. There were rooms in the basement she'd barely ever set foot in, mostly because she'd always thought the basement was creepy and was only something to be used during tornado warnings. Her bedroom alone was about twice the size of Bellamy's, and bigger still than their room in the apartment had been.

"Maybe we could all try to go out for dinner tonight," her dad suggested to her mom as they hung back at the car, talking quietly. But not so quietly that she couldn't hear them.

"She doesn't need a big family dinner," her mother argued. "She just needs a nice, quiet night at home."

"But she might wanna go out and catch up with some friends," her father protested.

"Or she might wanna stay in."

Frustrated by how they were talking about her as if she wasn't even there, Clarke turned around and blurted, "I'm not really that hungry," even though she knew she probably would be later. When her parents gave her a confused look, she tacked on, "I ate alligator yesterday," as though that would somehow explain something.

Her mother made a face, as though that sounded extremely unappetizing.

"Well, we'll just let you settle back in," her dad decided, "and if you wanna do something later, you can let us know."

"I'll call you later," her mom told him, and he nodded and got back in the van. That whole conversation was about the most Clarke had seen them communicate in months.

When they went inside and she looked around, she was stunned by how many little things seemed to have changed. The family portrait of her and her parents on the wall above the fireplace was now replaced by an engagement photo of her mother and Kane. The pillows on the couch, which had once been blue, were now beige, and there was a different lamp on the end table. Her grandmother's old rocking chair no longer sat in the corner of corner of the living room, because there was a big plush chair there instead . . . also beige. The kitchen chairs were different, and the table was angled in a different direction, and there were so many other little but noticeable changes.

"It looks different," she said, trying to take it all in.

"Well, Marcus officially moved in, so we had to make room for some of his things," her mom explained.

That all made sense and everything, but still . . . it kind of took her aback. "Is he here?" she inquired.

"Yeah. I think he's in his office. Let me go get him."

She tensed as her mom crossed through the living room and headed down the hall. _His_ office? It was his office now? It used to be her dad's.

When her mom came back out, she brought her fiancé with her. He put on a big smile and said, "Clarke. Welcome home."

 _Oh, this is so weird,_ she thought, hoping he wasn't going to move in for a hug or anything. This guy was her old principal, so it just wasn't easy to be all warm and fuzzy with him.

"It's good to see you," he said. "Been a while."

She nodded in agreement, not quite sure what to say. She didn't want to be fake and say 'good to see you, too,' but she didn't want to be rude, either.

"Honey, your dad brought all your other things over here when he drove back," her mom informed her.

"What about my car?" she asked. It hadn't been in the driveway, so she assumed he still had it.

"That's over at his place. I can take you over there later if you want it back tonight."

She shook her head. "I'll just get it tomorrow." Her dad had been adamant on the drive home that they were having some father-daughter time tomorrow. Because apparently they hadn't gotten enough of that in New York.

"Here, let me take your bag upstairs for you," Kane said, grabbing her duffle from her. "I'll just put it in your room."

"Thanks." She could have taken it herself, but if he was going to offer, then why not let him?

When it was just her and her mom again, it probably should have been easier to talk, but Clarke still wasn't sure what to say. Luckily, her mom was quick to fill the void in conversation by reiterating, "It feels so good to have you back. You just have no idea." She smiled softly at her, reached out, and touched her hair again, pushing it back from her face. "You look the same."

 _I'm not, though,_ she thought, looking away. Sure, there were some things about her that hadn't changed, but there were other things that had. Just like this house. Gone were the days when she would insist that she was the same person she used to be, because she wasn't. But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. "I'm kinda tired," she said, needing a bit of a breather from . . . all of this. It was sort of overwhelming, going from living out on her own to being back here with her parents, and back in her childhood home.

"Didn't get enough sleep last night?" her mom asked.

She thought back to Bellamy, being _in bed_ with Bellamy, working up a sweat with him and just continuing to go at it until they both exhausted themselves. "Something like that," she said, feeling like it was no one else's business what had kept her up most of the night. "I think I just wanna go take a nap."

"Sure, go ahead," her mother said. "When you wake up, maybe you can try on your dress for the wedding."

"Yeah." She'd forgotten all about that, to be honest, but her mom was probably dying to see her in her bridesmaids dress, and probably nervous to see if it fit properly.

She bypassed Kane on her way up the stairs, and they sort of just stepped around each other politely and didn't say anything. It was just awkward, so awkward, and unfortunately, she didn't see that changing anytime soon.

She had _hoped_ that her bedroom would look exactly the same, that it would be as untouched as Bellamy's had been from the day he'd moved out. But when she opened the door and looked in there, the first thing she noticed was that her bed was different. It was a different frame, for starters, a different bedspread, and even the mattress looked thicker. It looked _nice_ and everything, but . . . it just wasn't hers.

When her mom ventured upstairs and came to stand behind her, Clarke was still in the doorway, staring inward in astonishment. "That's not my bed," she said, shocked that her mom would take that out of there. She'd had that bed her whole life.

"Yours was getting pretty old, and Marcus had this nice one. So we swapped it out," her mom said. "This one's a little bigger. I think you'll like it."

 _Big bed, big house,_ she thought. None of it was what she was used to anymore.

"Do you want anything?" her mom asked. "Some water? A sandwich?"

She'd meant what she'd said about not being hungry right now, and if she wanted some water, she could just slip across the hallway to the bathroom and fill up a cup. Assuming that that room was _still_ the bathroom and hadn't been transformed into something else. "I just wanna get some rest," she said. "Thanks, though."

Her mom looked like there was so much more she wanted to do or say, but she nodded and allowed Clarke to step into the room and close the door. Clarke felt bad, because it wasn't like she was trying to be distant. She really _did_ want to reconnect with her mom, but right now, she just needed a little alone time. Time to process everything, because ten hours ago, she'd been in bed with Bellamy, asleep in his arms. And now she was here. In a new bed. Without him.

She sat down, testing out the mattress, displeased to find that it was pretty firm. A little too firm for her liking. It would do, though. It was a hell of a lot better than sleeping on the floor was.

She pulled back the covers and got underneath, curling up on her side, on the same side of the bed she usually lay on when she shared a bed with Bellamy. If she'd wanted to, she could have sprawled out in the center of the mattress and taken up as much space as she wanted. She knew that. But she was used to having a side, so . . . the left side it was.

Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about him, tried not to think about what he was doing right now and wonder if he was lying alone in bed like this, thinking of her.

...

"Clarke, can I come in?"

Clarke barely even had time to open her eyes, let alone respond, before her mom pushed open the bedroom door and came in. Rubbing her eyes, Clarke asked, "How long was I asleep?" It was definitely getting darker out now, so it had to be a while.

"All afternoon," her mom answered. "Your friends are here."

She sat up straighter, immediately alert. "What?"

"All of them. Maya, Jasper, Monty. Monty's girlfriend." Her mother smiled. "They're all downstairs."

 _Oh my god,_ Clarke thought, feeling a spurt of excitement. "I'll be down in a minute," she said, springing out of bed. She had to run a brush through her hair, fix her smudged makeup, and make herself look semi-presentable before she saw them.

When she walked downstairs, she overheard her friends laughing as Jasper told some stupid joke. She didn't even have to hear the punch line to know it probably wasn't that funny, but just the fact that Jasper was convinced it was funny made it utterly hilarious. She heard each one of their distinct voices—Jasper's loud boisterousness, Monty's quiet teasing, Maya's subtle giggle, and Harper's bubbly laughter.

"Hey, guys," she said as she walked into the living room, almost a little shyly.

"Clarke!" Harper exclaimed, jumping up from the couch. She ran towards her and hugged her. "You're really here! I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you, too." It felt so good to see her. Having Harper around was like having a breath of fresh air, because she knew everything that had gone down in New York City, and she liked Clarke anyway.

"Look at this," Jasper said, rising to his feet. "She does exist." He came to Clarke and hugged her next, all smiles. "You're like a unicorn, you know. We weren't sure we'd ever see you again."

"Oh, come on, you knew I was coming home for the wedding," she reminded him.

"Well, besides that."

He had a point there. She really wouldn't have come back here for any holidays or birthdays or anything like that. Just weddings, of which her mother was having the first notable one. But someday, both of these couples would probably get married, too.

"Good to have you back," Monty said as he took his turn hugging her. He was a lot calmer than his girlfriend was.

"Thanks," she said, looking expectantly at Maya, waiting for one more hug. "Hey," she said.

Maya got up and came towards her, but she didn't make any effort to hug her the way the others had. "Hey," she returned.

Clarke tried to force a smile, but it was awkward. She knew that Maya was the friend who was going to have the hardest time interacting with her now in light of all the . . . revelations.

"So are we goin' out tonight or what?" Jasper asked excitedly.

"Yeah, sure," Clarke said, grateful for some time with them. "We can go out." She glanced into her kitchen, noticing that her mother was at the stove, putting what looked to be the ingredients for some sort of casserole in a glass dish. "I mean, unless you were planning on dinner," she added, not wanting to be inconsiderate.

"Oh, no, you guys go ahead," her mother said. She took out some tin foil, covered up the casserole dish, and stuck it in the refrigerator. "I will save this for another night."

Clarke made a mental note to make sure she sat down and had dinner with her mom . . . and Kane. As weird as that would be. They'd had dinner together before, not frequently or anything, but now that he was going to be her stepdad, it was something she'd have to get used to.

"Okay," she said, turning to her friends. "Let's go."

They all piled into Monty's car, and Clarke ended up in the backseat with the other two girls. She ended up in between the two of them, but Harper was the one who talked to her. Maya was pretty quiet, which wasn't unusual when she was out in public, but it _was_ unusual when it was just their friend group.

They went to the Bison Pub on Main Street, which was one of the only options to begin with, and which also had the best food. There weren't many other people there yet, but there were two guys sitting at a table drinking beer. She didn't recognize either of them, so she figured they must have worked on someone's farm. One of them looked up when she came in, nudged his friend, and then they both kind of stared at her quizzically. Like they knew her. But they didn't. Not really. They'd probably just . . . seen the video.

It wasn't just them, either. A husband and wife were sitting at the counter. Clarke recognized the woman from her mom's old book club. When she saw Clarke walk by on her way to an empty table, she leaned towards her husband and growled, "We are leaving," and even though he tried to protest, he eventually got up with her and walked out.

None of her friends mentioned it, but they had to notice it. The extra attention. The lingering stares. Even when they were all seated—and Clarke made sure to sit with her back to the door—whenever anyone walked in, they could hear these hushed whispers, and Clarke knew people were saying things like, "Look who's back," and "Can't believe she'd show her face here."

To her friends' credit, they didn't seem ashamed to be seen with her. At least Harper and the boys didn't. Jasper talked a mile a minute while they waited for their food, and then when they got it, he chowed down on his burger and said to Clarke, "Alright, admit it: You missed this place."

"What, the Bison Pub? Hell, yeah," she confirmed, plucking a pickle off her cheeseburger. "Best burgers on the planet."

"You ate a lot of pizza in New York, didn't you?" Harper said.

"Yeah. The burgers just weren't as good there."

"It's the Midwest beef," Jasper declared. "Can't beat it."

Clarke took another bite, savoring the delicious juiciness of the meat. Alligator meat hadn't been horrible, but it didn't compare to this.

"You know, the burgers they had in the dorm never tasted quite right to me," Monty said. "I think it's because I was comparing them to this."

"Well, I'm working in the dining center next year, so I'll make 'em right," Jasper promised.

"You're working in the dining center?" Clarke asked.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I needed a job."

"Hmm." She looked a way, mumbling, "I know that feeling."

The slightest semblance of an awkward silence descended over the five of them for a moment, but luckily, Harper had no problem breaking it. "So . . ." she said. "Is it weird to be back or what?"

"Kind of," she admitted. It was especially weird that her house wasn't exactly the same house anymore, and her bed wasn't at _all_ the same bed. "Actually, it's a little weirder seeing you here," she added.

"I know," Harper said. "I like it here, though. And I mean, we're living closer to campus than we are to Arkadia, so . . . it's not quite as small as this, so it's not _quite_ as drastic of a change."

"Wasn't the town you were in in Louisiana even smaller?" Jasper asked. "I looked it up. I'm pretty sure it's smaller than this."

She couldn't think about that town too much, because thinking of it made her think about Bellamy, and thinking about him made her want to cry. "Yeah, it is," she confirmed.

"How was that?" Monty asked.

"What, Louisiana?"

"Yeah."

Oh, they'd opened up the Louisiana can now. It was hard to seal it back up.

"Were you in the swamp?" Jasper asked. "Did you binge on seafood, go to the Saints stadium?"

"You know what, Jasper? Maybe Clarke doesn't wanna talk about all that," Harper jumped in.

"Yes," Clarke said emphatically. "What she said."

Jasper mumbled an apology under his breath, and they fell silent again. It was actually Maya who piped up this time, but only to ask, "So how's Finn?"

 _Drunk,_ she thought sadly. _Probably out partying._ "I don't . . . I don't know," she said. Even though she didn't owe him anything after what he'd done to her, she figured she wouldn't totally slander his name. His parents lived in Arkadia and had a tough enough time of it as it was. They didn't need to deal with that.

"He doesn't talk to any of us anymore," Monty said. "Guess he's got new friends now?"

Well . . . he had Cage, who was hardly a friend, but he was really the only person Finn hung around with. "That's one way to put it," she said, hoping he'd find his way. He wasn't her responsibility anymore, but she didn't want him to become his cousin. And unfortunately, he was already well on his way.

"Well, hopefully he'll be alright," Monty said. "Maybe someday he'll come home, too."

 _Oh god,_ she thought, her stomach tightening up at the thought. If Finn came back to Arkadia, she'd have an even rougher time trying to fit back in there. New York was actually probably a good fit for him if he could get his career on track.

"Hey, I've got an idea, girls," Harper announced, once again seeming to sense that Clarke needed rescuing from this particular topic of conversation. "Let's pop some money in the jukebox and dance."

"Oh, Harper, you know I don't dance," Maya said quickly.

"Please?" Harper pleaded.

"You guys have at it."

Harper was already getting up, but Clarke was a lot more hesitant. There was a small line of people up at the bar, people she knew and who knew her. The guys who'd given her those looks when she'd come in were playing pool now, not too far from where the jukebox was. "Maybe I shouldn't dance, either," she thought out loud.

"Oh, come on, you love dancing." Harper began to pull her up.

"You know, people don't really dance here," she pointed out.

"Well, maybe they should start." Harper practically dragged her over to the jukebox, where they put in a couple quarters and played a Britney Spears song. The first song Clarke had ever performed to at Grounders, but Harper probably didn't remember that.

Clarke was envious of her friend for just being able to let loose and move her hips all around and whip her hair back and forth. Sure, some people were giving her strange looks, but it didn't really matter. She was just a pretty girl who was dancing. But if Clarke started moving like that, she had no doubt that those guys would take their cameras out and start to film her. And then she'd go viral again. Small-town sweetheart turned stripper, coming home and dancing up a storm at the Bison Pub? Probably wasn't the best idea.

"Come on, Clarke, loosen up," Harper urged. "Why are you so stiff?"

"Because . . . I feel like people are watching me," she mumbled.

"Well, they are. Might as well give 'em something to watch."

"No need. They already have a video," she lamented.

"Oh, Clarke, don't worry about that." Harper grabbed her hands in an attempt to get her to move a little more. "Nobody's said anything to you so far, right?"

"No. But this is my first time leaving the house," she admitted. When she glanced over her shoulder, every woman at the bar quickly looked away and then turned to each other and started speaking to each other in hushed tones with disapproving looks on their faces. The men just kind of . . . stared. "Look at that. See?" she said. "They're judging me."

"Most of the people around here know I was a stripper, too." Harper shrugged. "Maybe they're judging _me._ "

"No, because you're the hot girl from the city who came here, so they think it's cool that you did it," Clarke said. "But I'm the girl who grew up here, so for me, they think it's shameful." She pulled her hands out of Harper's and stopped dancing altogether. It was ironic, because there had been a lot of nights she'd gotten up on stage and hadn't exactly felt like putting on a show. But she'd almost always been able to play the part and pull it off. Not tonight, though. Tonight, there was no disguising her distress.

"Okay, come into the bathroom with me," Harper said, grabbing her wrist. "Girl time. Come on." She pulled her back past the pool table, where one of the guys made sure to _conspicuously_ lick his lips when Clarke walked by. They squeezed into the small bathroom together, and Clarke sighed as she looked at her reflection in the smudged, dirty mirror.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, "I don't mean to be such a mess."

"It's okay," Harper said, rubbing her shoulder supportively. "I know your life's kind of gotten . . . messy."

Clarke almost laughed at that. Because it was so fucking true.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Harper asked sensitively.

"No." She knew what the 'it' was that her friend was referring to: Bellamy. Breaking up with Bellamy. She couldn't even think about him too much, let alone talk about him. "I mean, I _will_ , eventually," she said, "but for now . . . I can't."

Harper nodded, didn't push it any farther, and then asked, "Do you wanna go back out there or just go home?"

If she went home, she'd probably just retreat to her bedroom again. That sounded pointless, especially since she'd gotten some rest now and probably wouldn't fall asleep anytime soon. "No, I'm fine," she said. "Let's just go sit back down." As long as they weren't dancing, then people would look at her less.

"Okay," Harper said, pushing open the bathroom door. She came out after Clarke and followed her back past the pool table. "Don't worry," she said as they reapproached their friends. "It's your first night back. It won't always be like this."

God, she hoped that was true. Because this . . . this wasn't so fun. And she missed Bellamy so much.


	76. Chapter 76

_Chapter 76_

"So this is the new office." Clarke's dad sounded proud, looked proud, too, as he opened up the doors to his new workspace. He didn't have a whole building anymore, but he had half of one. The other half was an eye doctor's office.

"It's nice," she commented, only looking around a bit. Truth was, it was pretty damn standard. A couple desks, filing cabinets, a copy machine . . . and it was a lot smaller than his old one.

"Still needs a little remodeling," he acknowledged, "but I've got the money for it now."

He sounded proud about that, too. "So what exactly would I be doing here?" she asked, eyeing a relatively empty desk close to his. Would that be hers?

"Answering the phones, filing papers, scheduling my meetings," he replied.

"So pretty much a secretary?" she surmised.

"Pretty much."

She groaned.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "I thought you'd be excited."

"To be a _secretary_?" She made a face, dreading the thought. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but . . ." She trailed off and sighed. "I'm just kinda stressed right now."

"Then maybe you should come over tonight," he suggested. "Thelonious and I could cook dinner. Wells is home for the weekend."

That sounded . . . like too much. Just too much to handle right now. "I can't," she said. "I think Mom wants to have dinner with me and Kane tonight."

"Oh." Her dad looked momentarily disappointed. "Well, maybe some other night this week then."

Some other night, vague as it was . . . felt incredibly soon. "I don't know," she said, cringing a bit. It wasn't that she didn't want to sit down with her dad and his new family someday. She did; she wanted to figure out a way to be a part of that. But not yet.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

It would have been hard to go over there and have dinner under normal circumstances, let alone abnormal ones. "I'm mad at you, Dad," she finally just blurted out. She'd held it in long enough today. Her dad had driven over in her car and picked her up and taken her out for breakfast, and now here they were at his new office, but she didn't really care about the new office. There were things they needed to talk about, things that were more important.

"Why—why are you mad at me?" her dad stuttered. "What did I do?"

"You know what you did." She stood there a few seconds, waiting for him to own up to it, but he just stared at her with this confused look on his face, so she laid it all out for him. "Bellamy never _asked_ for money," she said. "You gave it to him all on your own."

Her dad took a step back. "He told you about that?"

"Yeah, he told me when I asked him about it. He told me the truth," she said, grateful to at least have that much now. "I should've known he would never . . . stoop that low," she said, regretting that she'd ever believed something so ridiculous. "I should've known."

"I wasn't trying to stoop, Clarke."

"But you did." She shook her head, making a face of disgust. "You put a price tag on me. Do you have any idea how infuriating that is? And what's even worse is that you lied to me about it."

He waited a moment, then acknowledged, "I did. I'm sorry."

Well . . . it was an apology at least. It would probably have to do.

"But Bellamy lied to you, too."

She didn't know why, but she felt compelled to jump to Bellamy's defense. "Yeah, to cover for _you_."

He winced. "You're right. I should be ashamed of myself. And I am. But please try to understand, I was just so desperate to get you to come home. And now here you are, and that makes me so happy." He managed a smile, but she couldn't manage one back.

"He's not cashing the check," she informed him.

"I know," he said. "But he didn't stop you from coming here, so that tells me he still knows this was the right decision."

God, she hated that, just hated the way it sounded. The _right_ decision? Shouldn't she have been the one to say whether something was the right or wrong decision or not? Although she'd hoped that talking to her dad about this might make her feel better, in reality, she just felt her anger escalating. "Did you just, like, write out our whole breakup or something?" she spat. "Were you feeding him lines? Because he told me he didn't mean most of what he said."

"We discussed you a lot, yes," he admitted. "But I didn't tell him to say anything."

She wanted to believe that; she really did. But . . . he'd lied to her about the money, so what if he was lying to her about other stuff, too?

"You're here now, Clarke," he said softly. "Let's not dwell on the past."

The past was still incredibly recent, though, so was it really even _dwelling_? Or was it just discussing? "So what, I just start working here now?" she said, not sure she could sit in that tiny office every day without going insane. "I rely on you for money?"

"Well, I'd rather pay my daughter than anyone else."

"Yeah, but I don't—I don't even know what you _do_ , Dad." Was she even the most qualified person for the job? Probably not.

"That's what you'll find out." He was trying to sound _so_ encouraging, but it just wasn't working on her.

"No, I don't wanna—I don't wanna find out," she growled. "I don't wanna be completely dependent on you. I don't . . . I don't wanna do this." That small office was starting to feel even smaller, like the walls were closing in, and she felt like she had to get out of there. "Can I have my keys?" she asked impatiently, holding out her hand.

Her dad looked a _lot_ less chipper than he had when they'd walked in, but he fished her keys out of his pocket and handed them over. About time she had her car back. God, it felt tempting to just hop in there and go for a drive.

She did get in the car, but she didn't go far. In fact, she'd only gone a block down the street when she spotted what used to be a photography studio—the same studio where they'd had countless family photos done—but now it was apparently a dance studio. She hit the brakes, pulled into a parking space out front, and strolled right in, because . . . why not? Maybe they had a job opening.

The owner was there, the mother of a girl who had been a couple years ahead of Clarke in high school. Pamela something or another—she'd been remarried a couple of times.

"So your dance background is . . .?" Pamela asked leadingly after Clarke had finally convinced her to sit down for an interview.

"Pom. Extensive pom," she replied. "I was a cheerleader for four years."

"What else?"

"Well, maybe basic lyrical?" No, that didn't sound right. "Or jazz. More like jazz," she corrected. "But I could learn lyrical." She wanted to make herself sound versatile, because really, she did pick up on new types of dance quickly. "And I can do hip hop. I mean, I don't really have any formal training with it, but I have rhythm." Whatever classes were being offered, she felt like she could teach them, or at least assist.

Pamela . . . didn't look impressed. "I don't think your style of dance would fit well here," she said.

"My style?" What the hell did that mean? She hadn't even seen her freestyle. How did she know what her style was? Unless . . .

. . . unless she'd seen the video, too.

"I'm a good dancer," she insisted, wishing so badly the stripping stuff wasn't hanging over her like a dark cloud. It just seemed to follow her wherever she went here. "I'm not coming in here expecting to teach pole dancing," she said. "Just . . . just give me a chance."

As Pamela frowned and shook her head, it became clear that she wasn't going to be willing to give Clarke any such thing. "I'm sorry," she said, but she didn't really _sound_ all that apologetic. "I just don't see that happening."

 _No, of course you don't,_ Clarke thought angrily. Her dad was really the only person in Arkadia who would even be willing to hire her, wasn't he? Everyone else probably had their minds made up.

She left the dance studio feeling even worse than before, and nowhere near close to a job she might actually enjoy. As she dragged herself to her car, she heard two girls snickering. Looking over her shoulder, she recognized a couple sophomore snobs. One of them, Victoria, had made the cheerleading squad last year, and she and Clarke had never gotten along.

 _Just ignore them,_ she told herself, trying to make herself believe that they were, by some chance, _not_ whispering and gossiping about her. She opened the door, ready to get in her car, when one of them stopped whispering altogether and said, "Ooh, look at me. I'm the Girl Next Door."

Clarke stiffened, feeling like she was just about to snap.

"Want me to give you a lap dance?" Victoria went on, and her friend laughed loudly, like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Clarke spun around just in time to see Victoria twirling around on a light pole, _clearly_ mocking her. "Okay, you think you're funny, Victoria?" she barked out, storming towards her. "You think stripping's bad? How bad was it when you sucked off half the visiting team at homecoming?"

"Oh, please," the younger girl scoffed.

"Or how bad did it _suck_ —no pun intended—when you and Mark Fisher got busted in the janitor's closet?" The list really went on and on with this girl. There was a reason they'd never been friends. "You wanna act like I'm such a slut? Take a look in the fucking mirror."

"Clarke!" her dad shouted, running up behind her, probably having just overheard the last part of the confrontation. "What's going on here?"

"Your daughter just started yelling at us, Mr. Griffin," Victoria answered all innocently. "I don't know what's wrong with her."

"Oh, shut up!" Clarke yelled. This girl was _such_ a bitch.

"Clarke, stop," her dad said, moving in front of her to block her view of them, even as they were just walking away. "You're embarrassing yourself."

" _Embarrassing_ myself?" she echoed in disbelief. "They were making fun of me! Don't you want me to stand up for myself?"

"I . . . I understand why you feel the need to," her dad said slowly. "But you need to concentrate on finding your place in this town again. Now trust me, the best way to do that is to just blend back in, don't make a spectacle of yourself."

"I can't do that," she growled frustratedly, tears forming in her eyes as she tried to keep all that frustration from spilling out. "Everyone who looks at me thinks about that video. Finn made a spectacle of me when he sent it out to everyone. I can't just blend back in, Dad, not when he made sure I would stand out."

"Just give it some time," he urged. "No one said it would be easy."

"Yeah, but it shouldn't be this hard," she protested. This was her home, technically. She'd grown up here her whole life. "All I was doing was applying for a job."

"A job?" He wrinkled his face in confusion, clearly not understanding why she wouldn't just jump on the one he'd offered. "As what?"

"A dance teacher," she answered quietly.

"A dance teacher." He didn't look pleased. "Really, Clarke?"

"Yeah, why not?" There was nothing wrong with that. In fact, as far as jobs went, it was pretty damn wholesome. "I'm a good dancer. I like it. And when I was in Trikru, there were these women who said they'd . . . that I could teach them a few things."

"The last thing you need to be doing right now is applying to be a dance teacher," he said.

"Dad, it's a studio, not a strip club," she reminded him. "And relax, she wouldn't hire me anyway."

"Well, do you blame her?"

 _What?_ she thought, staring at him in disbelief.

"You made some bad choices, Clarke," he said. "Now you have to live with them."

Yeah. Yeah, she knew that, but still . . .

"But I can assure you, the last thing you need is any type of job that reminds people of what you used to do," he went on, talking as if he had all the answers. "You came here for a fresh start."

"Yeah, but how am I supposed to have that if everyone's against me?" _Nothing_ felt fresh in Arkadia so far, not one thing.

"I'm not against you," he said. "I never have been."

Okay, so she had her parents and a couple friends still on her side. But everyone else was clearly just _so_ eager to pass judgment on her, to assume they knew who she was now, to assume they were better than her because they hadn't done the things she did.

"You know, I feel like you're not seeing what a great opportunity you have here," he said. "Not everyone gets a second chance."

"You did," she pointed out. His new office was proof of that.

"Yes, and now you do, too," he said. "And thank God, because in case you forgot, things were getting pretty bad for you in New York. You got attacked, remember?"

She shifted around a bit. "Yeah, that's not something you forget."

"Well, why did they attack you?" he asked, but it clearly was the kind of question he himself intended to answer. "Not just because you were a pretty girl, but because you were a pretty girl with a bad reputation."

Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open a bit. Had he . . . had he really just said that? "Oh, so I was _asking_ for it? Is that what you're saying?" she spat.

"No, of course not. I'm just saying . . ." He trailed off, clearly unsure of what he was saying, and sighed heavily, looking almost as frustrated as she felt.

"You know what? Leave me alone, Dad," she said, grumbling, "I don't wanna talk to you right now," as she stomped over to her car and got in. Let him find his own way home. He could walk, or Thelonious could come pick him up. Or Wells. She just wanted to go back home to the bedroom that wasn't quite hers anymore, lie down for a while, and imagine that Bellamy was lying next to her.

...

Dinner with her mom and her soon-to-be-stepdad was just the perfect capper to Clarke's already lousy day. The whole thing was awkward as hell. They sat at both ends of the table, and she sat on the side in between the two of them, spending more time moving food around on her plate than actually eating it. She just wasn't very hungry.

"How's everything taste?" her mom asked during one of many lulls in conversation.

"It's delicious," Kane declared.

Her mother smiled, then said, "Clarke?" to invite her opinion.

To be honest, her mom's meal paled in comparison to what Indra had cooked the other night, but she settled for, "Yeah, it's good," and took another bite.

"I don't think I left the casserole in long enough," her mom said. "Either that or it cooled off really quickly."

"It all tastes wonderful," Kane assured her.

"Well, thank you." They gave each other little smiles, and then they all fell silent again. It was _so_ weird having so many long silences. Clarke was sure it wasn't like that when it was just the two of them, but adding her back into the mix . . . it was as if neither one of them quite knew what to say to her.

Her mother cleared her throat, wiped her mouth off with her napkin, and changed the topic when she asked, "So how was your time with your friends last night?"

It hadn't exactly been what she'd been hoping for, but . . . no need to delve into that. "Fine," she answered simply. "I mean, it was . . . it was good to see them again." Had it just been her, Harper, Monty, and Jasper, it probably would have been a little less strained, but Maya just clearly felt on edge around her. And maybe they shouldn't have gone out anywhere; maybe they should've just stayed in.

"They're probably enjoying having the summer off before college starts back up again," Kane remarked.

"Monty's taking some summer classes," she pointed out. Knowing him, he'd graduate in three years instead of four.

"So what are your college plans, Clarke?" Kane asked. "Have you given that any thought?"

She shrugged and muttered, "Not really," mentally kicking herself for letting him segue into this topic.

"I can help you out with that if you'd like," he offered. "Applications can be a tedious process."

She realized he was just trying to be helpful, and being a principal, he probably _could_ be of assistance. If she _wanted_ that assistance. "I don't even know if I wanna go," she admitted. "But . . . thank you." She wasn't trying to be rude about it or anything.

"You don't know if you wanna go to college?" her mom asked, tilting her head to the side curiously. It was so obvious that she was trying to keep her tone calm and steady, but inside, she was freaking out. "Why is that?"

After the day she'd had, this was pretty much the last thing she wanted to talk about right now. "I just don't know if it's the right fit for me."

Her mother pressed her lips together tightly, obviously biting her tongue both literally and metaphorically. "Maybe we could get things back on track, though," she said. "Is med school still an option?"

Clarke almost laughed at that. "No."

"No?" The disappointment on her mom's face was obvious, even though she was trying to hide it. "Then what is?"

"I don't know." She looked down at her plate, mumbling her response. "Art. Music. I—I don't . . . I don't know." These questions were making her feel like she was put on the spot.

"Art and music, huh?" Kane echoed, exchanging a look with her mom. Neither one of them said anything, but she could tell that they were communicating their shared disapproval. Those weren't things you made a serious career out of in their eyes.

Much to her relief, the doorbell rang, and she shot up from her chair. "I'll get it." Rushing to the door, she hoped to see one of her friends on the other side, but when she opened it up . . . "Dad."

"Hi, sweetheart," he said. "Can we talk?"

Oh god, hadn't they had enough talks already today?

"Uh, Jake, we're in the middle of having dinner," her mom piped up.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's fine," Clarke said. Given the choice between the awkward dinner or clearing the air with her dad, she was going to pick clearing the air with her dad any day. "We can talk," she said, slipping out onto the porch. She shut the door behind her, leaving her mother and Kane to finish dinner by themselves. It'd give them a chance to discuss how directionless she was without her overhearing.

"Thank you for not slamming the door in my face," her dad said. "I realize I may have deserved it. Some of what I said today was _incredibly_ insensitive."

"You think?" She grunted and shook her head, taking a seat on the porch steps. She'd been trying not to dwell on it, but he'd kind of hurt her feelings, even if that hadn't been his intention.

"I know you weren't _asking_ to be attacked, Clarke," he said, sitting down beside her. "I'm so sorry if anything I said implied that."

She thought back to being in that alley, grabbed and tossed around by those two creeps who were sitting behind bars now. It made her skin crawl just thinking about it, but luckily, the memories of their hands had been something she'd been able to push aside, and the feel of Bellamy's hands had come to dominate her mind again.

"And if you wanna apply at the dance studio instead of working for me, then by all means . . . have at it," he said.

"No, I'll probably just end up working for you," she grumbled, feeling all resigned to it. "No one else is gonna hire me because of my 'bad reputation.'" She rolled her eyes, annoyed by how people were so eager to just use one video to form an opinion on her. "Wasn't everything supposed to be easier here?" she wondered aloud. "Better?"

"It will be," he assured her. "Just give it a little time."

How much time was it going to take, though? Honestly, she was getting impatient. Especially since she'd come from Trikru, and everything had felt pretty easy there.

...

Clarke finally tried on the dress for her mom's wedding the next day. It was a navy blue strapless thing. Not entirely hideous, but not exactly right for someone with a chest like hers, either.

"Hey, as far as bridesmaids dresses go, it's not bad," Harper, who had come over to hang out, commented.

"Yeah, it's nice," Clarke agreed, tugging up on the top a little bit as she eyed her reflection in her full-length mirror. "I can't believe my mom's getting married tomorrow."

"Yeah, how are you feeling about it?" Harper asked.

She shrugged, not bothering to disguise her feelings in front of the person who was nowadays quite obviously her closest friend. "I'm trying to be happy for her, but . . . it's bittersweet," she admitted. "I mean, I'm glad she was able to move on from my dad, but I wish it was a few more years down the line, you know? Would've been nice to have more time to adjust to it."

Harper frowned. "That sucks," she said. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Tomorrow's wedding wasn't about her, so she was gonna do her best to put on a happy face and make sure her mom had the day of her dreams. "He makes her happy, so . . . I guess that's all that matters." Maybe if her dad had adopted that attitude in regards to her relationship with Bellamy, then he wouldn't have lobbied so hard for her to come home.

 _Bellamy._ She looked away from the mirror, feeling that familiar pang of longing whenever he entered her thoughts. Which was something he was doing quite often.

"What's wrong?" Harper asked.

"Nothing, just . . ." She trailed off, sitting down on her bed, trying to avoid answering, even though she knew Harper was the one person in this town she could be totally open and honest with.

"Thinking about Bellamy?" her friend guessed, sitting beside her.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Oh, yeah."

Maybe it was less obvious to her parents and other friends because they hadn't seen her with Bellamy so much. But Harper had been there for all of that, to see them evolve from good friends into something far more. "I miss him," she confessed. "A lot." Looking down at her lap, she had to hold back tears as she thought about the distance between them. "Back in New York, he was always right next door. Now . . . he's so far away."

Harper rubbed her shoulder sympathetically and asked, "Have you called him?"

"No." She'd thought about it, of course, but . . . "What would I say?"

"Just tell him you miss him," Harper suggested. "I'm sure he misses you, too."

"Probably." The thing about missing someone, though, was that talking to them on the phone could make the misery even worse. "Can I tell you something?" she asked.

"Anything."

She tugged up on the dress as it began to fall again, and she was struck by the memory of Bellamy's swiftly taking her clothes _off_ of her. "The night before I left . . ." she said, hesitating a moment before blurting it out. "Bellamy and I slept together."

Harper's eyes widened.

"It was just kind of this random, spontaneous thing," she said, "but . . ." She couldn't help but smile wistfully as she thought back to the feel of his lips on her neck, his hands on her waist, among other things. "Harper, it was, like, the best night of my life," she confessed. It had surpassed even the first time she'd had sex with Bellamy, which she hadn't thought was possible. The whole thing had been such a rush, one she hadn't quite come down from. "And I can't stop thinking about it," she said. "I can't stop thinking about _him._ I try to let go and just _be here_ , but . . . it's like part of me is still somewhere else, and I don't know what to do about it."

Harper fell silent as she took that in for a moment, then said, "You wanna know what I think?"

Clarke nodded eagerly.

"I think . . ." Harper paused, then smiled at her. "I think you'll figure it all out."

 _Will I?_ Clarke wondered. Her best friend sounded so confident, like she truly believed that, but wasn't that why she'd come back here? Wasn't coming home supposed to be the thing that figured her life out for her? Yeah, it was.

So why wasn't that happening?

...

Spending the afternoon with Harper was great, because it was the only thing that still felt normal and natural for Clarke. Her dad extended a dinner invitation with him and Thelonious and Wells that night, but she just couldn't take him up on it. Not yet. Baby steps. Dinner with her mom and Kane last night had been one thing, but she wasn't ready to meet her future stepbrother.

In order to have a plausible excuse for why she couldn't make it to dinner, she called Maya and arranged to go see a movie with her that night. Some historical romance. It sounded boring to her, but it was exactly the kind of film Maya liked. Although her friend seemed hesitant at first, she did eventually agree to meet her at the local theater, which was pretty much just one dark room with a big screen and a popcorn machine out front. Clarke had gone on her first date with Finn there. She couldn't even remember what movie they'd seen.

At first, Clarke waited outside the theater, but it soon got too hot, so she went inside, got her popcorn and a coke, and headed into the theater, wondering if perhaps Maya was already there. It wasn't crowded, so it didn't exactly take her long to scan the seats and see that, no, she hadn't shown up yet. She sat down in one of the middle rows, ate a few bites of her popcorn, and tried to distract herself with the movie trivia that was showing on the big screen. She didn't know any of the answers, nor did she really care.

About five minutes before the movie was set to start, she finally just pulled out her phone and gave her friend a call. Four rings later, her voicemail kicked on. " _Hey, it's Maya. Go ahead and leave me a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks."_ A beep sounded, and Clarke wasn't sure what to say.

"Hey, Maya, it's me. I, uh . . . I was just wondering if we were still gonna hang out tonight or . . . what's going on," she said, casting a glance to the right when someone else walked into the theater. Too tall to be Maya. "The movie's about to start, so . . . you'd probably better get here soon," she said, not even sure if they'd let her in once the movie was already in progress. "Okay, I'll talk to you later then, I guess." She ended her voicemail, feeling like it was pointless. The movie was going to start in four minutes. Unless Maya was right outside the door, there was no way she was getting there in time.

A few minutes later, when the lights dimmed and the previews started playing, Clarke got a text from her friend. _Hey sorry to miss the movie,_ it read _. I don't feel very well. Maybe next week?_

She stared at the words on the screen for several long, disappointed seconds. She didn't _feel_ very well? Yeah, right. That was the oldest excuse in the book. And Maya hadn't seemed all that eager to come to the movie tonight anyway. She could have just been honest and told Clarke she didn't want to hang out with her. That probably would have hurt less than this.

Not about to sit there and watch a movie all by herself, she got up, dumped her drink and popcorn into a trashcan, and marched out of the theater. She went straight home, feeling bummed out. Was this what was going to happen from now on when she tried to hang out with Maya? What about Jasper? Monty wasn't so judgmental about the stripping thing since he was dating Harper, but he was still busy with college. Did she just not fit into their lives anymore? At all?

Her mom was sitting on the living room couch, reading a corny romance novel when she got home. "Hi," she said, setting the book aside, but not before bookmarking her page. "You're home already?"

Clarke shrugged, sliding off her sandals. "Maya didn't show. And I didn't wanna see the movie alone, so . . . just came home."

"Oh, well, that's too bad."

"Yeah." Being stood up by anyone was never fun. In fact, it actually _really_ sucked. To the point where Clarke almost felt like crying.

"Honey, what's wrong?" her mom asked, patting the empty cushion next to her, as if she wanted to sit down and have a nice little mother/daughter chat.

"What isn't?" Clarke spat, feeling like . . . like she didn't _want_ to sit down. She'd just gotten done sitting in that theater for half an hour. "One of my best friends can barely even look at me anymore, let alone hang out with me. She doesn't wanna have anything to do with me anymore, not after . . . everything."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sure that's not true," her mother tried to comfort her.

"No, it is. And even Jasper and Monty . . . they probably don't know what to think of me now, either. They're just better at hiding it than Maya is."

Her mom got to her feet, closing the distance between them. "Give them a little more credit, Clarke," she urged. "They're your friends."

"Yeah, but they don't even . . . they don't even know me anymore." How _friendly_ could things be between them when they'd all grown apart so much?

"Well, don't you have to take some responsibility for that?" her mom said. Her sudden change in tone startled Clarke. She sounded almost a big accusatory when she reminded her, "You just left, Clarke. You didn't tell anyone. You left in the middle of the night, and if it weren't for your dad, you wouldn't have even come back. We're all getting used to the new you. Give us some time."

 _Time?_ Clarke thought. Why did everything have to take so much time? She understood, she supposed, because it was taking her time to come around to her parents' new relationships, but still . . . how much time was it gonna take for people in this town to see her for who she was now and not just as . . . the Girl Next Door?

That night, she lay in her bed, still trying to get used to the mattress. It was up farther off the ground than her old one was, and it was really bothering her that it wasn't quite as soft. She'd slept better in Bellmay's bed in Trikru, even though it'd been smaller than this.

She'd meant it when she'd told Harper that she couldn't stop thinking about him. Even now, even though she was upset about being stood up by Maya . . . even now, her thoughts inevitably still wound up being about Bellamy. She took out her phone, hovering above his name in her contacts list, contemplating for a moment what might happen if she did call him. Would he even answer? If he didn't, her heart would probably break.

She set her phone aside, face down so she didn't have to see his name anymore, and abandoned the ridiculous idea of calling him up, even though there was a strong chance it could have made her feel better. Just hearing his voice, just hearing him say her _name_. . . that would give her all the comfort her mom and her dad just weren't able to provide. That would make her forget about her hurt feelings, and the slight bitterness she was starting to feel for her friend. Because unlike Maya and everyone else who had to 'get used to' the girl she was now . . . Bellamy just knew her. All of her. Inside and out. There was nothing for him to get used to, because he already knew her better than anyone else in the world, and he loved her all the same.


	77. Chapter 77

_Chapter 77_

Clarke didn't get much sleep that night. But she must have gotten at least a little rest, because it was the alarm on her phone that woke her up the next morning, five hours before the wedding was set to start. She just lay in bed for a good thirty minutes, repeatedly pressing the snooze button before she finally got up and got ready.

Her makeup didn't take long, but her hair did. Her mom had instructed her to wear a half ponytail, which was kind of a go-to look for her, except this had to be a _polished-_ looking half ponytail and not just her regular hairdo. So first she straightened her hair, hoping that was what her mother had in mind. But when she poked her head out of her room and asked if it looked alright, her mom said, "Oh, I like it when it's a little curlier." So she took that as a hint to work on it some more. She took a curling iron to it for a good forty-five minutes until it looked right. Disney Princess curls or something like that. That was the look her mom wanted her bridesmaids to have. And why not? Weddings were supposed to be fairytales, after all.

When she was pretty much done getting ready, she stepped out of her room and nearly collided in the hallway with her mother. She was in her dress now, just a simple, sleek white gown. Nothing too over-the-top, but it was beautiful, and it fit her like a glove. "Mom," Clarke said, almost startled to see her mother looking so . . . elegant. She was so used to seeing her in clothes for work or . . . well, mom clothes.

"What?" her mom said. "Does something look wrong?"

"No, you look . . . you look great," Clarke assured her, hoping that she inherited some good genetics and could look _half_ that good when she was her mother's age. She didn't look like a woman in her late forties today; she looked like she was in her thirties, just positively radiant.

"Thanks," her mom said, smiling. "So do you. I'm glad the dress fits."

Clarke self-consciously tugged up on the front of it, still worried that her chest was a bit too big for a strapless gown. Maybe she could stick some double-sided tape underneath before they left.

"I think we should head out soon," her mom said. "Don't wanna be late."

"Well, even if we were . . . it's not like the wedding can get started without the bride," Clarke pointed out.

"True." Her mom looked down at her dress again, touched the necklace dangling over her collarbone, then said, "Oh, my earrings," and darted back down the hall to her room.

"Mom," Clarke called after her.

Her mother spun around.

 _Say something,_ Clarke thought, slowly walking towards her. Yes, she looked nice, but there was a lot more to say today than just that. Letting out a heavy sigh, she admitted, "I feel like I haven't really been the best daughter this past year."

Her mom didn't rush to disagree with that, but she did sound sympathetic when she said, "Oh, Clarke . . ."

"But I just wanted you to know . . ." She hesitated, not sure that there was anything she _could_ say to make up for just taking off in the middle of the night without even so much as a goodbye. It'd been a crappy, insensitive thing to do, and she shouldn't have done it that way. "I _am_ really happy for you," she said, hoping that meant more than an apology ever could. "You've found the person you wanna be with, and you deserve that kind of love." Whatever reservations she may have had about Marcus Kane . . . clearly he and her mom were a good fit. They loved each other. That was all that mattered.

Her mom got all teary-eyed as she said, "Thank you, Clarke," and then pulled her in close for a hug. "You have no idea how much that means to me."

The hug went on a little longer than Clarke had anticipated, but she didn't pull away from it. It had been a long time since she and her mom had just had a nice moment like this. It felt . . . necessary. Especially on her mom's wedding day. She wanted to give her blessing, strange as it was for a child to do so. She wanted her mom to know that she supported this, because as nice as it would have been to still have the picture-perfect family she'd had growing up . . . they just couldn't have that anymore. And that was okay.

They got into Clarke's car, put the hood up so the wind didn't completely destroy their hair, and drove just outside of town to the golf course, which had become a popular wedding spot for Arkadia and plenty of other nearby small towns over the years. It was very open and picturesque out there, and even though Clarke had been surprised that her mom wasn't having a wedding in a church, she supposed it made sense to do something different. No need to do another church wedding when the first one hadn't worked out so well. A few of her mother's friends, also bridesmaids, swarmed her right away and snuck her into the clubhouse, probably to put the finishing touches on her look for the day. Kane was mulling about and talking to guests, but everyone made sure to shield his eyes when the bride showed up. He wasn't allowed to see her before the ceremony.

Clarke wasn't exactly sure what her roles and responsibilities for the day were. Sure, she was the maid of honor, but she didn't want to be in the dressing room with her mom's friends. Most of those women probably had some very harsh opinions of her right now, and even though they wouldn't voice them on Abby's wedding day . . . there would be critical looks and sharp glances, and Clarke would notice them. No need to make things uncomfortable, so she'd just keep her distance.

She ended up busying herself with some last-minute preparation up at the altar. A few of the flowers were looking wilted, so she found some beautiful ones right out there on the course and swapped them out, prettying things up a bit. It was a good way to stay occupied and to sort of just keep to herself. Nobody really came up to her or said anything to her until her friends got there.

"Hey, Clarke," Harper chirped as she, Monty, Jasper, and Maya approached her. Harper looked gorgeous but modest in knee-length burgundy dress, and Maya had on a cute floral maxi-dress. Jasper and Monty were dressed in the same suits they'd worn to graduation around this time last year and both looked very dapper.

"Hey," Clarke said, abandoning her flowers project for the time being.

"This looks nice," Monty remarked. "Where do we sit?"

She shrugged, not sure if there were going to be ushers directing guests to certain places or not. "Wherever you want, I guess," she said.

"Front row," Jasper decided, taking a step in that direction.

Clarke's arm shot out to block his progress. "Not the front row," she said. "Unless you wanna sit next to Kane's mom."

Quickly, he changed his tune and said, "Back row it is," as he began to step backwards.

"We'll just sit in the middle," Maya said, grabbing her boyfriend's arm. There were four seats on either side of the aisle, so that worked out well for the four of them. She led Jasper to a row almost directly in the middle, and Clarke was pretty sure she heard her reminding him to behave.

Unable to refrain, Clarke remarked, "You look better," wondering what kind of reaction that would get out of Maya, who had supposedly not been feeling well last night but looked just fine now.

"Yeah," Maya said softly. She didn't really make eye contact for long.

 _She feels guilty,_ Clarke realized. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Maya hadn't been sick last night at all, but that she just didn't want to go see a movie with Clarke. The choices Clarke had made in New York City had damaged her friendship with Maya, to the point where it might not even be something they could repair. It was a sad fact, but . . . nothing she could do about it now.

Although Monty sat down with them, Harper motioned for Clarke to follow her, and they stepped off to the side, able to talk in private while Jasper entertained his friends with stupid tricks like tossing M&Ms up into the air and catching them in his mouth.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Harper asked quietly. "About today, I mean. It's gotta be weird seeing your mom get remarried."

"Yeah, it's weird," Clarke acknowledged, "but . . . if she's happy, I'm happy."

Harper narrowed her eyes and asked, "Are you . . . happy, though? You don't look happy."

Clarke filed that away as a reminder to practice her smile before the ceremony began. "I am," she said, and it wasn't a complete lie. "I'm happy for her."

"Yeah, but . . . what about _you_ , Clarke?"

 _What about me?_ she wondered. This day wasn't about her. It was all about her mom. That was what she had to focus on today. Nothing else. "I have to . . . go mingle," she decided. Even though that sounded awful, it was better than unpacking all of her own issues right now. There were family members who had driven in from out of town, even a few who had flown from other states. She needed to at least say _something_ to them. She could talk to Harper anytime.

The mingling was . . . a mess. Her aunts and uncles and cousins didn't know what to talk to her about. It was so awkward, because it was so obvious that they were deliberately trying not to ask her what she'd been up to this year, or what New York had been like. They all knew her scandalous little secrets, but this wasn't the time or place to talk about them. So every conversation Clarke had with anyone was stiff and stilted, and for that reason, she was so grateful when her dad showed up. She hadn't been sure whether she'd see him or not.

Excusing herself from a conversation with her great aunt Cindy about her non-existent college plans, she walked towards her dad and said, "Got an invite, huh?"

"Yeah," he said, "at least minute."

Maybe that boded well for the future then. Her mom and dad hadn't exactly been on good terms since their split, but maybe, just _maybe,_ they could still be friends. "Why didn't you bring Thelonious with you?" she asked.

"I didn't think it'd be appropriate," he said.

Clarke nodded in agreement. It probably wouldn't have been.

"It's awkward enough as it is," her dad said. "I'm sure your mom's side of the family wishes I wasn't here."

Clarke glanced back over her shoulder, noting the harsh glare great aunt Cindy was giving them now. She quickly looked away to try to cover it up, but it was obvious. "Well, I'm glad you're here," Clarke told him. "You're an outcast just like I am."

"You're not an outcast," he told her.

"You sure about that? Aunt Amanda can barely look at me. And Uncle Josh started out our conversation with, 'Let's not talk about New York.'" She sighed heavily, wondering if things would ever go back to just being normal.

"Well, then, we can be outcasts together," her dad said, putting his arm around her.

"Actually, we can't," she said. "I'm the maid of honor, remember?" She fast-forwarded to the reception in her mind and fretted, "God, I haven't even worked on my speech."

"You'll do fine," he assured her, giving her a supportive squeeze.

"Won't be the first time I've gotten up in front of a crowd and improvised," she mumbled. "Or maybe Mom doesn't want me to give a speech. She probably doesn't. Probably doesn't want me to draw any more attention to myself."

Her father stiffened a bit. "Clarke." He moved in front of her, staring down at her sympathetically, shaking his head in sadness. "I'm sorry if I did anything or said anything to make you feel ashamed," he apologized. "You don't need to feel ashamed. Not today . . . not ever."

"I know," she said. But the truth was, he _had_ made her feel ashamed on more than one occasion. All these people, whether they meant to or not . . . they just made her feel like she'd done something horrible in New York, and . . . she really didn't think she had. "It's just frustrating," she said, "because . . ." She trailed off, her bottom lip quivering as she started to feel emotional about those fleeting days of peacefulness and freedom with Bellamy in Louisiana. "I didn't feel that way in Trikru," she confessed, wishing she'd been able to take that feeling with her. No one had judged her there, because no one knew her. No one had made her feel like she'd done something wrong. And Bellamy . . . for one night, Bellamy had managed to make her feel . . . happy. Just perfectly content.

She wanted to feel that way again.

...

Clarke's mind started to get fuzzy as the wedding actually began. She didn't even remember getting in line with all the other bridesmaids, but somehow, she found herself there as a trio of musicians began to play "Canon in D." There was a cello player, a violinist, and a flute player, none of whom Clarke recognized but all of whom sounded lovely.

The flower girl went first, of course, the daughter of one of Clarke's distant cousins. She was adorable and playful and seemed more interested in trying to eat the flowers than throw them, so her mom had to get out of her seat and guide her down the aisle. There was no ring-bearer, so Kane's best man probably had the rings in his pocket.

All the groomsmen already stood at the altar alongside the groom, so that left the bridesmaids to walk down the aisle by themselves. Clarke was the last one, and her heart raced with every step. She was used to having eyes on her, but this was . . . this was different. Because even though most people were trying to be nice and respectful, it was hard not to notice that a few of them leaned over and whispered things to each other when Clarke walked by.

When she got up to the front, she breathed a small sigh of relief, for the attention was completely off of her now. Her mom appeared at the end of the aisle, looking even more gorgeous than she had this morning. Her hair was up off her shoulders, loose tendrils falling around her face. Her makeup made her eyes light up, and her skin looked perfect, like something straight out of a magazine. Kane beamed a smile when he saw her, and she smiled back at him.

There was no traditional wedding march, just the continued chords of "Canon in D," and it was so soft, mellow, and beautiful, the perfect accompaniment as Abby strode down the aisle towards her soon-to-be husband. The song stopped shortly after she got there and the two of them joined hands, and when everyone took a seat, the minister started in.

As hard as she tried to focus, Clarke felt . . . distracted. By everything. As the minister started in with the "We are gathered here today . . ." portion of the ceremony, she cast a look at her dad, who was sitting towards the back, an empty seat to his left. She wondered how weird this was for him, and if he was happy for his ex-wife. It wasn't like he'd be jealous or have to fake being jealous now that he was out and proud. But still . . . it had to feel strange to see someone you'd been married to for years get married to someone else.

Either the minister skipped over the whole "If anyone has any objections" part of the ceremony, or Clarke just didn't hear it, because before she knew it, they were at the vows. It was moving quickly, which was fine by her. It was hot out there, and she was starting to sweat.

The vows were the traditional kind, which she'd predicted. Both her mom and Kane were traditional people, so it just made sense. And there was nothing wrong with traditional vows. They were used over and over again for a good reason: because they were meaningful. As Kane said his, she looked out at her friends, sort of surprised to see that Jasper was crying. Maya reached into her purse and found him a tissue. Harper sat with her hands wrapped around Monty's arm, and as Kane finished his vows, Monty just looked at his girlfriend and smiled adoringly.

 _They're gonna make it,_ Clarke thought confidently. Hell, at this rate, Harper would probably be the one to catch the bouquet today.

When it was time for her mother to say her vows, Clarke snapped back into focus. She stood behind her mom, clutching her small bouquet of white flowers, and she just . . . she just _listened._

"I, Abigail, take thee, Marcus, to be my wedded husband."

Bellamy's face flashed through her mind, and it stayed there.

"To have and to hold from this day forward."

She remembered feeling his arms around her, feeling his heart beat beneath her cheek as they slept.

"For better or for worse."

Bellamy, comforting her when she'd been broken down over Roan. Bellamy, listening to her sing . . .

"For richer or for poorer."

Her hands trembled, causing the bouquet to shake as she thought about their modest apartment, how they'd even slept on the floor that last night.

"In sickness and in health."

She blinked back tears as she remembered waking up in the hospital after having something slipped into her drink. He'd been right there next to her bed.

"To love and to cherish," her mother said, "'til death do us part."

 _Oh god,_ she thought. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed, because she pictured herself and Bellamy out on that bridge, putting a lock on there that was _still_ there, despite everything.

 _Shut it off,_ she told herself. If she thought about Bellamy too much longer, she was going to have a breakdown right up there at the altar, and that couldn't happen. Not today. Not on her mother's wedding day.

She took a deep breath to steady herself once the vows were done, and she thought that was the worst of it. But then they exchanged rings, and she found herself looking down at her own hand, wishing she still had that silly little claw machine ring. The one Bellamy had won for her and given her with a promise of "Someday." She'd gotten so used to it being there that something still didn't feel right about having nothing on her finger. It just felt so empty.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the minister finally declared. "You may kiss the bride."

Everyone cheered as the bride and groom had their first kiss. Most people stood. Clarke clapped along with the other bridesmaids. Her fingers were still shaking, though, so she ended up dropping her flowers, but she didn't even bother to pick them up.

It all remained very traditional as the trio of musicians in the back began to play again. This time, it was the regular song that played at the end of weddings. Clarke didn't even know what it was called, nor did she really care. She was a bit dazed as she moved towards the center of the aisle, linked arms with a groomsmen she didn't even know—probably an old college friend of Kane's or something—and walked back down the aisle with him, a good ways back from her mom and new stepdad.

It didn't matter that her mind was spinning, that thoughts of Bellamy were still saturating it. She'd made it through the wedding. Now she just had to make it through the reception.

...

Clarke kind of just shuffled along with everyone else to the community center. It was only a few blocks away, but it was way too hot out to walk, so she got in her car and drove. She was alone this time since her mom hopped into her and Kane's vehicle, which already had a _Just Married_ sign on the back. Once all the guests were in the community center's ballroom, the DJ cut the music and announced "Mr. and Mrs. Kane," and they came in hand in hand, greeted with all sorts of whoops and applause.

 _Weird_ , Clarke thought. Her mom didn't have the same last name as her anymore. She was Abby _Kane_ now.

There was some food to munch on—just little stuff like cheese cubes and crackers—while the reception got underway. Clarke didn't feel like snacking, though, so she just sat at the table, the head table where all members of the wedding party were seated, and watched her mom and Kane have their first dance as husband and wife. They were literally just _gazing_ into each other's eyes, and seeing them like that made Clarke wonder what her parents had looked like. It couldn't have been like this, right? Sure, her dad had fooled a lot of people for a lot of years, but . . . they'd never _really_ been in love, sad as it was to admit that.

After the first song, other couples took to the dance floor. Monty and Harper got out there, as did Maya and Jasper. Clarke watched them with envy, wishing she had someone to get out there and dance with. _Her_ someone.

In the midst of biding her time, just waiting for the actual food to be served, a hand laid out in front of Clarke's face, her father's hand. "Would you like to dance?" he asked.

She looked up at him, surprised that he'd invite her to do any type of dancing. Considering her reputation, she'd pretty much just assumed he'd want her to sit there the whole time. She must have looked really lonely, then, for him to ask.

She took his hand, stood up, and let him lead her out onto the dance floor. They got in the traditional dance pose, and a tear stung her eye as she tried to remember the last time they'd had a father/daughter dance. Maybe back at her junior high graduation. All the dads danced with their daughters at that.

"Mom looks really happy," she said, casting a glance at her mother out of the corner of her eye. She was still gazing up at Kane with stars in her eyes.

"Yes, she does," her father agreed. He didn't sound bitter about that in the slightest.

Looking down at her feet, she cleared her throat and asked, "When are you and Thelonious gonna get married?" The town probably wouldn't know what to think about a gay wedding, but . . . whatever, people who didn't support it didn't have to come. "In the next year?"

"We'll see," he said.

It was totally gonna be in the next year. It had to be, right? He just wasn't saying that because he didn't want to overwhelm her with the prospect of another new stepparent when she'd just gotten her first one. "When that happens . . . you'll be really happy, too," she predicted.

He nodded in agreement, slowly, and said, "Things do seem to work out the way they're supposed to."

She frowned, and her bottom lip quivered as she thought about that. "Do they?" she wondered. If that was true, then how were things going to work out for her? "Oh, don't mind me," she said, holding back tears. "I'm just . . . feeling sorry for myself."

"It's okay," he said comfortingly. "You're allowed to miss him."

Hearing him say that . . . she knew that she wasn't hiding anything today. Her broken heart was right out there on her non-existent sleeve for all to see, and there was no concealing it.

"You know, someday you'll be the bride," he said, smiling. "And I'll get to walk you down the aisle. If you want me to. I look forward to that."

 _Walk me down the aisle?_ she thought, trying to picture that. Yeah, of course she wanted her dad to do that for her, but . . . how was she supposed to walk down that aisle towards anyone other than . . . other than . . .

She backed away quickly when the song ended and said, "Thanks for the dance." She felt horrible for putting an end to their nice little father/daughter moment so abruptly, but she needed a little space. She felt like she was going to start crying, and she didn't want to do that with so many people around, so she lowered her face and wove through the other people out on the dance floor, desperately seeking an escape.

...

Clarke ended up finding a room. She wasn't sure what it was a room for, but it was quiet and it was secluded, and it had a table where she could sit and try to write out her speech. She'd heard rumblings that the meal was going to be served soon, and wasn't that when she was supposed to get up and speak? Before the meal? Or during? She was so confused.

She managed to find a notepad and a pen that halfway worked, so she sat down for twenty minutes and went through various drafts of the same speech. None of them really sounded quite right, so she kept crumpling them up and tossing them aside, only to start over. She was getting nowhere fast.

While she was in the middle of her fourth attempt, the door to the room opened, and in came her mom. "There you are," she said, closing the door behind her. "I've been looking for you."

"Just working on my speech," Clarke said. "I'm a sucky maid of honor. I just started."

Her mom waved it off. "You don't have to worry about it."

"No, it's—it's customary," she insisted, feeling like she'd be letting her down if she didn't stand up and say something. "I'm supposed to give a speech." She stood up, ready to take this one into the bathroom and rehearse it in the mirror a few times, but when she re-read the first line . . . she hated it. Ripping the paper in half, she mumbled, "Might just have to wing it."

Her mom smiled at her sympathetically, took one half of the paper from her, and skimmed it. She didn't say anything about the speech, though. In fact, when she did speak again, all she said was, "Clarke, we need to talk."

Clarke frowned. "What do you mean? Don't you wanna get back out there?" They could talk later, in a couple days after she and Kane got back from their honeymoon. Where were they going again? Fiji? Cancun? She didn't even know.

"I will," her mom said. "In a minute."

 _In a minute?_ Clarke thought. This was her wedding day. Didn't she want to spend all her minutes with her new husband?

"I'm worried about you," her mom blurted out. "You're not . . . you're not happy."

 _No,_ Clarke thought, _I'm not._

"You haven't been happy since you've been back here."

That was all true, but that didn't mean they needed to talk about it right now. "No, Mom, you don't need to worry about me," she said, "especially not today. It's your wedding day. Just enjoy it."

"I am. It's the best day of my life," her mom said, "other than the day you were born." Her eyes shimmered with tears when she said that. "I love you, Clarke," she said, her voice shaking. "And it just breaks my heart to see you like this."

"I'm sorry," Clarke apologized quickly. "I don't mean to be so . . . I don't mean to be like this today."

"It's okay," her mom assured her.

"No, it's not." It was self-centered and . . . just wrong. It was wrong of her to be thinking about herself so much on day that was all about her mother. "I really am happy for you, Mom, I swear," she insisted. "I just . . ." She trailed off, not sure how to say it without sounding like she was feeling sorry for herself.

"You miss Bellamy," her mom said, which caught Clarke off guard. Her mom was the parent she least expected to talk to her about Bellamy, just because she didn't know him at all. "You've missed him this whole time," she said. "And that's not gonna stop."

 _No, it's not,_ Clarke thought. As long as she was here and he was there, she was going to keep missing him, and it was going to keep hurting like hell.

"I'm surprised you even made it through the ceremony, to be honest." Her mom laughed a little.

"What do you mean?" It wasn't like there had been an alternative.

Her mom pressed her lips together tightly, but both of them were noticeably quivering. Tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes as she said, "You don't wanna be here. You don't wanna be back in this town, and you don't wanna be living with me again."

Clarke just stood there, unable to deny that.

"The only reason you came back here was because you felt like you had to, not because you wanted to," her mom went on. "And I don't want you to be unhappy."

 _What is she saying?_ Clarke thought as her heartrate started to pick up. Was she saying . . . was she _actually_ saying . . .?

Her mom reached out, put her hand's on her shoulders, and echoed Clarke's own words to her when she said, "You found the person you wanna be with, and you deserve that kind of love."

Clarke gulped, feeling like a dam of tears was about to burst. God, she had. She really had found that person. And she wanted to be with him right now _so badly._

"So you know what you need to do?" her mom said. "You need to get in your car and drive. You need to go to that boy and tell him you wanna be with him for better or for worse. Because you do."

 _I do,_ Clarke thought, her heart soaring as she imagined how freeing it would feel to say those words. _I do._ "But I can't just leave," she protested weakly. "It's your wedding day."

Her mom nodded wordlessly, but she did really seem all that sad. It was as if, somehow, she'd come to accept this, to the point where she could even encourage it. "At least this time we get to say goodbye," she said, blinking back tears.

Clarke felt like someone had just pulled the world out from underneath her, because she never would have expected this. Almost a year ago, she'd left in the middle of the night, gone away without even informing this woman she was leaving. And now here they were, and her mom was the one _telling_ her to go, giving her that one last push she needed to do what was already in her heart.

Clarke threw her arms around her, shedding a few tears as she choked out, "I love you, Mom." She hadn't said it often enough, but that was going to change.

"I love you, too, sweetie," her mother said, stroking her hair. Slowly, she released Clarke from the hug, smiled at her, and said, "Now go."

Clarke smiled back shakily, gratefully, and took her mom's advice. She darted out of that room, down the hallway, and back out to the ballroom. People were still dancing, so she squeezed through tables and through bodies, hustling towards the exit. It would have been nice to be able to say goodbye to her friends, but she didn't want to interrupt them in the middle of their dances. They'd understand why she had to leave. She just didn't belong there. Not anymore. She belonged somewhere else, with some _one_ else, and she couldn't wait to see him again.

When she got outside, she found her dad leaning back against her car, almost as if he were waiting for her. "Dad?" she said, slowing to a stop in front of him.

For a second, he couldn't look at her, but when he finally asked, "You're leaving, aren't you?" he met her eyes.

She was glad he was out there, honestly. She owed it to him to say goodbye, too. "Yeah," she said, "I am."

He nodded slowly, all sorts of emotion decorating his face.

"How did you know?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "I could tell. Your mother and I both could."

 _Parent thing,_ she realized. Maybe she'd have that someday.

"Are you sure you wanna go?" he inquired, a hint of last-minute pleading in his voice. "Because you can stay. I can help you out here. I can . . . I can help."

"Dad . . ." They both knew there was no reason for her to be in Arkadia anymore. "I love him." He had to understand that, better even than her mother did. He'd seen her and Bellamy together. He had to know.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," he said after a long, drawn-out pause. "Promise me."

"I promise," she said. There would be no more questionable jobs, no more using her body just to make money. Not only was she dead-set against it herself, but Bellamy would never let her wind up in that same type of situation again. "And you _will_ walk me down the aisle one day," she assured him. Despite their issues and the things between them that still needed to be resolved, he was her father, and there was no way she was going to deprive him of that moment.

He began to cry when she said that, and he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly. "I love you, Princess," he managed to get out.

Besides Bellamy, he was the only person who could call her that and have it mean so much. "I love you, too, Dad," she said, pushing aside any annoyance or anger she'd felt with him these past few weeks to just appreciate that she had a father who really did care about her. And a mother, too. They cared about her enough to let her leave.

That hug could have gone on forever, and her dad probably wanted it to. It was obvious that he didn't want to let go, so she had to do it for him. "I have to go," she said, hoping he would understand why she just felt like she couldn't waste another minute. She was ready to be happy again.

She got in the car, gave him a look through the rear-view mirror, and cried happy tears of her own as he smiled at her and waved goodbye. She waved back, then pulled away from the curb. When she was on the road, she hit the gas pedal, and she didn't look back.

Of course she had to stop at home really quick, just to pack up a few things. Most of her stuff hadn't been _un_ packed yet, so it was easy. She loaded up everything she wanted or thought she would need and dumped her bags and a suitcase into the back of her car and into the trunk. She changed out of her bridesmaids dress, too, and into jean shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt that she was pretty sure was Bellamy's anyway. She combed her hair out, put on a pair of sunglasses, and got back in the car, barely even giving her house a second glance. Rolling the hood down, she breathed in the fresh air, taking a moment to let it sink in that she was really doing this. Leaving home again. Alone this time.

But she wouldn't be alone for long.

Cranking the radio, she drove on down the street, taking the same route out of town that she and Finn had taken months ago. But she felt different now. She _was_ different.

The wind whipped through her hair, and excitement raced through her veins.


	78. Chapter 78

_Chapter 78_

For the rest of the afternoon and well into the night, Clarke drove. With no clue where she was going, she had to rely on the GPS on her phone to navigate. It wasn't as long of a drive as the drive to New York had been, but it still seemed like it was taking forever. She just wanted to get to Trikru, to get to Bellamy.

As she flew down the interstate, top of the car still down, she gave some thought to what she would say to him, creating all sorts of scenarios in her mind of ways he might respond to her. Hopefully he wouldn't be upset. He wouldn't be, right? He'd be happy to see her. Maybe a little confused, but . . . it was all gonna work out. She felt it with certainty this time. She couldn't explain how or why, but she just _knew_ that this was it, that everything over the past year had led her to this decision. And she felt good about it.

Construction and rush hour and a few minor accidents on the interstate slowed her down, and at one point, traffic was at such a standstill that she had to take an exit and use some alternate roads. Her GPS kept recalculating her route, but she always ended up making it back on the interstate eventually. On there, it was a pretty open drive.

Unfortunately, her own body's exhaustion caught up to her around midnight, and she knew it wasn't safe for her to drive any longer. She had to find a hotel shortly after crossing the Mississippi border. As much as she would have loved to have kept driving, she needed to rest. So she found the cheapest, most rundown place imaginable, scrounged around in her wallet for enough cash to cover it, and slept for six hours that night. She wasn't willing to waste any more time than that. At 6:00 a.m. her alarm blared, and she shot straight out of bed, eager to get back on the road. Not much further. She was almost there.

She took a quick shower, even though she wasn't sure how sanitary the bathroom was, then let the wind blow her hair dry as she continued on her way. When she finally crossed the border into Louisiana, she felt her heart skip a beat. Bellamy was so close now. All she had to do was get to him.

The sights started to become somewhat familiar the farther south she went. It wasn't that she could recognize specific landmarks or anything, but . . . it was just starting to _feel_ like Trikru. Once the hustle and bustle of New Orleans was in her rearview mirror, everything took on a more small-town feel. Road signs started to list Trikru, first at sixty miles out, then fifty, then forty. At thirty miles out, she had to stop for gas again, and it seemed like it took a year for the tank to fill.

Twenty miles. Then ten. Her heart could barely handle the anticipation.

What was she gonna say to him? She had no idea. Whether it was her mom's wedding reception or this, it seemed that she was just destined to give an impromptu speech this weekend.

Since she didn't remember Bellamy's exact address once she reached Trikru, she had to drive through town a bit to get her bearings. There was the school, where Bellamy was probably going to end up coaching both drama _and_ football. And not far from that was the rec center, where she hoped she might be able to talk Indra into giving her a job. On the main drag was the bar where Bellamy was working, but it was early and his car wasn't there. So hopefully he was still at home. As much as she loved Octavia, Clarke sort of hoped she'd spent the night at Ilian's or something. Whatever she was about to say to Bellamy, she preferred to say it to him alone.

She recognized a road that led to the outskirts of town, took the turn, and bumped along on gravel and dirt, just waiting for his house to appear behind the tree line any second now. She supposed she'd have to get out and knock on the door. Or ring the doorbell, if it worked. It wasn't like he knew she was coming. He could have still been asleep for all she knew. It wasn't even 9:00 yet.

Once again, it seemed like things were taking forever, so she was beginning to worry that she hadn't taken the right turn after all. But then . . . there it was. The house. The old, two-story house that belonged to Bellamy now. And he was up on the roof above the porch, hard at work on the loose shingles he'd been examining just the other night. His thick, dark hair was all over the place, and his tan muscles gleamed in the early morning sunlight. He paused to wipe some sweat off his head, then turned around slowly as he heard her car pulling up.

Their eyes met, and she felt breathless.

 _Bellamy,_ was all she could think, just so relieved to see him. He must not have shaved since she left, because he had the beginnings of a beard and mustache coming in. He looked hot as hell, but more importantly . . . he looked stunned to see her.

Pulling the car to a stop, she took a deep breath and climbed out. Unsure of what to say, she just smiled and went with, "Hey," finding it a little bit funny that he was looking at her like he'd just seen a ghost.

It took him a moment, but finally he managed a similar, "Hey," in response. He stayed up there on the roof, no longer interested in the shingles, and asked, "What're you doin' here?"

She looked around, shrugged hopelessly, and replied, "I went for a drive."

That got him to crack a smile. Just a small one, though, because his mind was definitely still spinning. She'd caught him off guard, and to be honest, she kind of loved that.

"I missed you," she admitted, even though that had to be obvious.

It made her feel a lot better to hear him say, "I missed you, too." Not that she'd ever really doubted it.

"I got to see Harper again, and all my other friends," she told him. "And I saw my dad's new office, and I got turned down for a job at a dance studio, and then . . ." She smiled softly as she thought about standing up that altar yesterday, hearing those vows, letting them sink in. "Then my mom got married yesterday."

As if he'd assumed that she'd be upset about that, he asked, "How was it?"

"Good," she said, hoping her mom wasn't too sad that she'd left again. At least this time she had a brand new husband to keep her mind off of it. "Eye-opening," she added, wishing she could articulate her feelings for him as succinctly as those wedding vows would. But nothing between her and Bellamy had ever just been simple like that, so she knew she was going to have to lay her heart out on the line here. And she was ready for it. She was ready to be completely open, completely vulnerable. No holding back.

"Eye-opening?" he echoed, sounding confused.

"Yeah." Even before the wedding, she'd known that Arkadia wasn't working out, but during it . . . everything had just become so clear. "My mom's actually the one who encouraged me to come here," she told him. "And my dad didn't stop me, either."

Bellamy's eyebrows arched in surprise.

"I know, hard to believe," she said. "We weren't even all the way through the reception, and I just got in the car and . . . drove." In retrospect, it really hadn't taken that long. She would have been there in about fourteen hours if she hadn't had to stop and sleep. "It's crazy, I know, and any normal person would've called first," she rambled on, "but . . . I guess I just got used to things being dramatic." She laughed a little, glad that she was actually _able_ to laugh about all the drama they'd gone through in New York. No, some of it just plain wasn't funny, but some of it had been an absolute soap opera, and somehow, in the midst of all of that, she and Bellamy had managed to create something real, something that wasn't ever going away.

He stared at her wordlessly, maybe because he was still shocked to see her there, or maybe because he just didn't know what to say. Maybe both.

"Bellamy, I wasn't happy there," she said, more than willing to fill any void in conversation with all the things she wanted to say. "In fact, I was miserable. And I know it was supposed to be some fresh start, but . . . nothing about it felt right." Everything from her bedroom to her night out on the town with her friends . . . it just hadn't felt like it was where she was meant to be. But this . . . this did. "I was happier when I was here," she told him. "With you."

Bellamy opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but he didn't. In fact, he just ended up closing it again.

"I don't feel like Arkadia's home anymore," she said. "Actually, I don't feel like home even is a place anymore. I feel like . . . it's you." As far as speeches went, this wasn't the most eloquent one. She kept having to pause and collect her thoughts and figure out what she was trying to say right on the spot, but . . . she was saying it. She was saying it all. "My home is with you," she told him, not really caring if it was cheesy or cliché. "Because when I'm not with you, I wish I was. I spent my whole time back there just wishing I could see you again or talk to you or . . . kiss you." She lowered her head for a moment, then lowered her voice, too, and mumbled, "Or tell you I love you." She looked back up at him, meeting his eyes once again, gauging his reaction. It was like he couldn't look away from her, and he couldn't move, either. "Because I do, Bellamy," she insisted. "I love you so much. And I think . . . I think that's all that matters. I think, as long as we have each other, everything's gonna be okay." If they could survive New York City together, they'd be fine here. Money might be tight, and college might never be an option, but . . . she didn't care. That wasn't important in the grand scheme of things.

"Clarke . . ." he finally said. But that was all he said as he walked across the roof and started climbing down the ladder.

"I know I'm still young," she acknowledged, "and people seem to think that, when I moved away for the first time, I lost myself. But I don't think I did. I don't think I got lost." Maybe she almost had, at some points, but . . . she felt like she knew and understood herself now better than ever before. "God, if anything . . . I got found," she said, marveling at how much she'd changed in just a year. " _You_ found me. You saved me." Tears stung her eyes as she thought of everything he'd done for her, to protect her. "You loved me. You loved me like I've never been loved before, and . . ." She felt close to crying, not because she was sad, but just because she was touched. It _touched_ her to feel love from this man, coming off of him in waves. "Bellamy, I can't just give that up," she said stubbornly. "I can't just let go of that. I won't."

He got down off the ladder and stepped towards her a bit, stopping in front of his porch, leaving a distance between them.

"So maybe it's crazy for me to just show up here, but I don't care," she said. "I know this is right. I know we're supposed to be together, and I _want_ us to be together." She thought of what her mom had told her to say, then tacked on, "For better or for worse." Because she knew there would be bad times, hard times, but she knew they could get through them. Together.

Bellamy just gazed at her, _so_ intently. She couldn't read the expression in his eyes.

"Now would be a good time for you to say something," she invited, not sure she could pour her heart out any more than she already had. She needed him to talk to her, too.

But he didn't. He didn't say anything. He just kept standing there, kept his eyes locked onto hers, and her heart roared in her chest. So desperately, she wanted to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She wanted him to open up his mouth and say he loved her, too, because really, _really_ , what else on earth could _possibly_ matter more than that?

She'd just begun to resign herself to him _not_ saying anything and her having to ramble on some more when, all of a sudden, he took four big strides towards her, and all of a sudden, he was just _there_. His mouth swooped down onto hers, and he kissed her so passionately, she felt like she might fall over. Luckily, he was there to wrap his arms around her, pull her in close, and hold her upright. Their mouths mingled and mated, and that said _everything._ In an instant, she went from needing him to talk to her to not needing a word. No, words weren't necessary when he was kissing her like this.

In that moment, she knew exactly what he was thinking, exactly what he was feeling, because she felt the exact same thing. The rush and the exhilaration of being in each other's arms again, the relief of no longer being so far apart . . . she never wanted the kiss to stop, but slowly, he pulled his mouth away from hers.

She gazed up at him, barely able to breathe, and he smiled at her softly. She smiled back, and seconds later, his mouth was covering hers again. He hoisted her up into his arms this time, and she wrapped her legs and arms around him, letting a feeling of pure, undeniable happiness wash over her. The exact same feeling she'd been missing ever since she'd left him. It was back. It was back because of him.

Back in Arkadia, she'd felt lost. But now that she was here with him . . . she felt found again.

...

It really had just been inevitable that they'd ended up back together, hadn't it? Bellamy lay in bed with Clarke that night, wondering how much longer he would have been able to hold out until he'd picked up the phone and called her, at the very least. The past couple days had been tough, but he'd tried to keep himself busy with work and odd jobs around the house. It hadn't really worked, though. Clarke had invaded all his thoughts at every hour of the day, so much so that, when he'd first seen her car pull up and watched her step out of it, he'd assumed he was seeing things or dreaming again. But of course . . . of _course_ she'd been real, because not being with her . . . that just wasn't something he could do. And there was no reason for it. Sure, things in New York hadn't been perfect, but _nothing_ was ever perfect. Although . . . this right now felt pretty damn close.

"You tired?" he asked as she curled up against him, resting her head and hand on his naked chest.

"Mmm-hmm," she purred, eyes closed. "But I don't wanna go to sleep. I wanna stay awake with you."

While he admired her determination, it was late, and they'd done _a lot_ to wear each other out that day. Although he'd been scheduled to work at the bar that evening, he'd found someone to fill in for him, so they'd pretty much had a day of non-stop lovemaking. Even he didn't have it in him to go another round at this point. "I'll be right here when you wake up," he reminded her. He wasn't going anywhere tonight. Even if his arm went numb, he wasn't going to untangle himself from her for even a second.

"Yeah, but . . . today was the best day of my life," she said, a sleepy smile playing on her kiss-swollen lips. "And I don't want it to be over yet."

Hell, neither did he, but it was late, and they were both spent. "Well, we'll have another one like it tomorrow," he told her. "And the day after that, and the day after that." He brushed her hair away from her forehead and gave her a gentle kiss, hoping he could rearrange his work schedule to pull a couple short shifts these next few days.

For a minute or two, she didn't say anything, and he thought she may have fallen asleep. But then she squeaked out, "Bellamy?"

"Hmm?" God, it felt good to hear her say his name again.

"Did you ever think we'd end up here?" she asked him quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"No." He looked around the room, feeling like they were going to have to fix it up now. Maybe they'd move into his mom's room since it was the biggest, but maybe not. She seemed to like it in here. "I'm glad we did, though," he said, stroking her hair.

"Me, too," she said, lightly grazing her fingertips around his chest. "I think we're gonna end up getting married, too, someday."

"Yeah, we will," he agreed, his heart warmed by the thought. Damn, when he'd first met her, he'd had no intention of ever becoming someone's husband, but now . . . he looked forward to being that to her.

"And we'll make babies," she went on. "A couple babies."

"A couple years from now." There was no rush on that one. She wasn't even twenty years old yet, after all. But yeah, they'd have some kids. Another thing he never thought he'd do but now wanted to have someday.

"Do you think we'll be good parents?" she asked him.

He thought of his mom, who most definitely _hadn't_ been a good parent, and said, "We have to be." There was no way he was going to help bring a child into the world just for it to feel unwanted and unloved. No, he was gonna do better than that.

She fell silent for a few seconds again, then tiredly announced, "I think I'm gonna fall asleep now." All her words sort of blended together, as if she were drunk.

"Go ahead," he urged. "I got you." He gave her another soft kiss on the forehead, then lay there with her, watching as she nodded off using him as her pillow. Her naked body pressed into his, spreading warmth all the way through him, and he felt completely, utterly content.

"Goodnight, Princess," he said, happy to reclaim that nickname and call her that from time to time. She wasn't the kind of princess who got things handed to her on a silver platter. She was the kind of princess who fought and had learned to stand up for himself. And today was proof of that. She'd risked everything by leaving Arkadia and coming here to be with him; she'd left everything behind. So yeah, she was still a princess, and she was still a very, very brave one.


	79. Chapter 79

_Chapter 79 – Epilogue_

1 YEAR LATER

Clarke trundled down the stairs, toweling off her still damp hair. "Bellamy!" she called. "That showerhead's acting up again." She made a pit-stop in the laundry room to dump her towel into the washer, then headed out to the kitchen, where he was at the stove making breakfast. "There's just hardly any water coming out."

"Okay, I'll try to fix it this weekend," he said as he turned the heat on the stove down to low.

"Thank you," she said, impressed by how handy he'd become. Since their house was an old house, things broke down all the time, and since they couldn't exactly afford to hire a repairman for everything, Bellamy had taken to fixing a lot of things himself.

"Well, you know . . . we gotta be able to have shower sex," he joked.

"Mmm." She tilted her head back, and he gave her a quick peck on the lips. "Breakfast, huh?" she noted.

"Well, it was gonna be breakfast in bed, but you woke up." He grabbed a plate and started scooping hashbrowns onto it. "How much do you want?"

"Not a lot," she said, taking a seat at the table. "Gotta fit into my dress."

He gave her a look. "I don't think that's gonna be a problem."

No, it really wouldn't be. The dress she'd picked out was a loose, comfortable maxi-dress, but it was _so_ pretty. "I can't wait 'til you see me in it," she said, hoping it would make him teary-eyed.

"Funny," he said, "'cause I can't wait to see you out of it."

She ginned, eager for that, too.

Octavia threw open the back door suddenly, looking out of breath, like she'd been putting in work out there all morning. Which she probably had. "Okay, the backyard's finally all set up," she announced. "You guys _so_ owe me for being your wedding planner."

"Thank you, Octavia," Clarke said, genuinely impressed by how much initiative the young girl had taken with this whole thing. "You've done a really good job."

"It's no problem." She brushed a few stray flower petals off of her purple LSU t-shirt and added, "I'm _sure_ you'll return the favor when Ilian and I get married someday."

"I will," Clarke agreed. Hopefully she'd have more than three months to plan their wedding. When Bellamy had popped the question back in March, though, they'd just figured . . . why wait?

When Octavia had turned her back to them to once again survey her work on the wedding arch out in the backyard, Bellamy leaned down and mumbled in Clarke's ear, "Make sure she doesn't catch the bouquet today. I'm not ready for that."

She laughed a little.

"So is Indra actually gonna officiate this thing?" Octavia asked, whirling around.

"Yeah," Bellamy said. "She got ordained online last month."

"She'll do a good job," Clarke said confidently. "She knows what we want. Simple, sweet, not too drawn-out."

"Yeah, you guys just wanna party it up at the reception," Octavia said.

"Actually, we wanna sex it up _after_ the reception," Clarke corrected.

Her soon-to-be sister-in-law wrinkled her face in disgust. "Ew."

"Oh, yeah, married sex?" Bellamy grinned. "I'm lookin' forward to that."

"Sick. Ugh," Octavia said, shuddering exaggeratedly. "And this is why I don't live here anymore. Well, that and the fact that I wanna be able to have plenty of non-married sex with Ilian."

"Really, O?" Bellamy groaned.

"See? If you can gross me out, I can gross you out, too." She smirked.

Clarke was content to just sit there and eat her breakfast while they bickered—hell, she'd gotten used to it—but all of a sudden the front door opened, and in came Ilian, who'd agreed to be Bellamy's best man today. "Hey, people are starting to show up," he informed them.

"Already?" Clarke glanced up at the clock. Shit, she _had_ sort of lost track of time this morning, mostly on account of . . . being pleasured. By Bellamy.

Breakfast became an afterthought, and Clarke slipped into a pale pink sundress in order to look presentable and greet people as they showed up. Bellamy just stayed in jeans and a t-shirt. Neither one of them was even close to being ready to go, but it wouldn't take them long. This wasn't going to be some huge, extravagant, fancy wedding. They didn't want it to be.

Indra and her daughter were among the first to show up, followed shortly after by Clarke's friends. "Hey!" she exclaimed, hugging Harper first. They talked multiple times a week, but she didn't get to see her nearly as much as she would have liked.

"Oh my god, you look so pretty!" Harper squealed. "You're, like, glowing. Are you . . .?"

"No," Clarke replied quickly, but Harper had a glow about her, too, so she couldn't help but ask, "Are _you_?"

"No," Harper said. "Not yet."

Clarke smiled. _Yeah, not yet._

"Monty and I have a bet goin' when it comes to you two," Jasper piped up, motioning in between Bellamy and Clarke. "I think it's gonna happen this year. Like this calendar year."

"What," Clarke said, "that I'm gonna get . . ." She made a rounded belly motion with her hands.

"Yep." Jasper nodded confidently.

She laughed a little at that, figuring that . . . yeah, it was at least a possibility. She was still on the pill, but that was all the protection she and Bellamy used. They weren't exactly _trying_ yet, but someday they would. "Hey, Jasper," she said, giving her kooky friend a hug.

"Hey." He got serious for moment when he told her, "You do look nice."

"Gee, you guys are good for my ego," she said, turning to hug Monty. "I'm not even done up yet."

"It's good to see you," Monty said, hugging her with only one arm since he held two wedding presents in his other. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." It was good to see all of them, too. It'd been a couple months since they'd come down to New Orleans for spring break. As was the norm these days, Maya was still a little more hesitant to interact with her, but things were definitely getting better. The ice was thawing again. "Hey," Clarke said to her.

"Hey." Maya initiated the hug between them and said, "I'm really happy for you."

"Thanks. That means a lot."

Harper eased past her and exclaimed, "Bellamy! Look at you!" as she gave him a quick hug. "You're . . . very underdressed."

"Well, I haven't started getting ready yet, either," he said.

"You guys realize you only have, like, an hour, right?"

"Hmm, maybe I should go get dressed then," Clarke decided. "You wanna help me with my hair and makeup?" The makeup wouldn't take long, but she had to straighten her hair.

"Sure," Harper said. "Just tell me what you're going for."

"Okay." She was about to head inside when she caught sight of two familiar friends getting out of an old, beat-up minivan. "Oh, wait a minute," she said, holding her hand to her chest as Murphy and Emori approached with their seven month old son. "Oh my god! You guys made it!" It'd been _so_ long since she'd seen them, but they had FaceTimed with them a couple of times per month.

"Yeah," Emori said, balancing her son on her hip. "One of us cried the whole plane ride here."

"Hey, I don't like flying," Murphy said. "What do you expect?"

As happy as Clarke was to see them, of course everyone's attention went straight to the baby. "Oh, can I see him?" she asked.

"Sure," Emori said, handing him over. "Landon, say hi to Aunt Clarke."

"Aunt Clarke," she said, testing it out. Maybe it was just a nickname and not an actual relation, but she liked it nonetheless. "Oh my god, look at him," she cooed. "He's so cute!" She sent Bellamy a look and told him, "I want one."

"Well, you might get one on your honeymoon," Murphy pointed out.

"Are you guys going anywhere?" Emori asked.

"No, we can't really afford anything," Bellamy admitted.

"But we both took a week off work," Clarke added, fascinating by how soft and tiny Landon's little hands were. "We might go spend a couple days in New Orleans."

"That'll be fun," Emori said.

"Yeah." She knew Bellamy had wanted to take her somewhere else, on a _real_ vacation, but she was fine with a low-key honeymoon. As long as she got to spend some quality time with him, that was really all that mattered.

"Here, you wanna hold him?" she asked Bellamy, offering to hand Landon over.

"Sure," he said. "Am I Uncle Bellamy then?"

"Yeah," Murphy confirmed. "Be careful. He might puke on you. He just ate."

Bellamy took Landon, bravely bouncing him up and down a bit, eliciting a gurgling giggle. "Hey, buddy," he said. "You lucked out. You look more like your mom than your dad."

Murphy rolled his eyes.

"God, you look so good with a baby," Clarke said as she watched Bellamy with the little boy. "I can't even handle it."

"You really want a baby? Go ahead, take ours," Murphy offered. "He spits up, poops, cries all night. He's a real catch."

"Aww, but you love him anyway," Clarke said.

Murphy took one look at his son, rubbed his bald little head, and admitted, "Yeah, we do."

Clarke met Bellamy's eyes momentarily, and he gave her a knowing smile. A little Blake baby was another one of those things that was going to happen _someday._ She was only twenty years old, after all, and still had a few months left before she turned twenty-one. But when someday did eventually come . . . she felt like they'd be ready for it. They were both really determined to be good parents. They'd talked about it a lot.

Although she could have spent a lot more time with Murphy and Emori's baby, Clarke knew she had to head upstairs and get ready for the day. Everyone expected the bride to look beautiful, and even though Bellamy said she looked beautiful all the time, she wanted to look _extra_ pretty today. She was using Octavia's old bedroom as her get-ready room, because once she got that dress on, Bellamy was no longer allowed to see her. Tradition and all that.

"Remember when we used to be backstage at Grounders," Harper said as she applied Clarke's foundation for her, "getting ready just like this?"

"Well . . . not _just_ like this," Clarke said.

"No. This is better."

"Much better," she agreed. Having an aisle to walk down was a lot better than having a stage to step out on. Sure, as she walked towards the altar, all eyes would be on her, but they'd be the eyes of friends and family, not random horny men.

"You know what?" she said. "When Bellamy and I went to my mom's for Christmas . . . it was my first time back in Arkadia that _didn't_ feel uncomfortable. It was the first time in a long time I didn'tfeel this, like, cloud of New York hanging over my head." She shrugged. "I don't know, maybe it's kind of wishful thinking, but it seems like people might finally be done talking about me?"

"Yeah," Harper said, blending in her makeup, "for the most part."

"Meaning?"

"Well, I _do_ hear people talking about how jealous they are that you're marrying such a hot guy."

Clarke smirked. "That's fine. They can talk about that."

"I think they've mostly been talking about Finn now that he moved back," Harper said. "He's working at a car place."

 _Right back where he started,_ Clarke thought, actually feeling a bit bad for him. But living in Arkadia was probably a lot better for him than living in New York had been.

"Things have been good here, though, right?" Harper asked.

"Yeah." The big city definitely hadn't been all that she had hoped for, and a small town like Trikru had a lot more to offer than she'd ever imagined. "Did I tell you I'm teaching pole dancing at the rec center now?"

"You mentioned it. How'd that come about?"

"Well, it started up a couple months ago. I was giving private lessons," Clarke explained, "but eventually so many women were interested in it that Indra decided to make it an official class. It's a weekly thing. Like ten different women show up."

"That's awesome," Harper said. "And you're still doing vocal lessons, right?"

"Yep. And guitar lessons, too." She was keeping busy, but it was all pretty fun. In fact, some of her students were coming to the wedding today. "Oh, and next month I get to teach a summer art class up at the high school."

"That's great, Clarke," Harper said, bending down to start applying some eye shadow. "You get to use all your talents."

"Yeah, I love it." Maybe they weren't the kinds of jobs one got with a college degree, but she got to do things she enjoyed, and other people learned to enjoy them, too.

"I bet your parents are proud of you," Harper said.

She sighed and said, "I hope so." They'd both still offered to pay for a couple college classes, but she'd turned them down. Not only did she not want to be dependent on them, but . . . that just didn't seem to be in the cards for her. Slowly, it seemed that they were accepting that. Sometimes it was still a process, getting them to let her make her own choices and live her own life, but they were getting better and better about it all the time.

...

Bellamy had known that Murphy and Emori would show up, but seeing Miller show up with his boyfriend Jackson was a lot more surprising. "Man, I can't believe you guys made it," he said. Miller had just taken his last final exam the day before. He was graduating next weekend.

"Drove all night, but we got here," Miller said, giving him a bro-hug.

"Wow," Bellamy said, glad to see his friend, "it's crazy how many people came out to the middle of nowhere for this."

"Well, we're happy for you," Miller said. "You guys deserve this."

"Thanks." He and Clarke had definitely been through some shit to get to this point, so . . . yeah, he had to admit, he felt like they deserved it, too.

A few kids walked towards the backyard and say, "Hey, Coach Blake," so he waved at them and said "Hey," back.

"Coach Blake?" Miller echoed. "Football players or theater geeks?"

"Both, actually," Bellamy replied. He'd started out as the drama coach, but it'd only been a matter of time before the school had asked him to be an assistant coach for the football team, too, to try to turn that all around. They'd gone 2-6 last year, but it was actually an improvement, and by getting to know some of those guys, he was able to lure them into theater and get more boys into the program.

Part of him really wanted to take a minute to tell Miller about what he was doing for work (besides tending a bar), and he also wanted to ask Miller what Pike was up to, see if he was still representing up-and-coming actors, promising them the world, or if he'd finally moved on and given up on that; but he caught sight of someone parking across the street in a car that was _way_ nicer than anything his friends drove. Out stepped his old boss, present in hand and everything, and she was someone he was even more surprised to see there than Miller. "Just a minute," he said. He made his way to the edge of the front yard and said, "Anya," as she crossed the street.

"Hi, Bellamy," she said. "Long time, no see."

"Over a year." He hadn't talked to her in that whole time, but he was pretty sure Clarke sent her a text once in a while.

"I heard about this, and I just thought . . . well, how could I not come?" she said with a small laugh. "I tried to keep you two apart, but I always knew it wouldn't work."

"Nope," he agreed. As upset as he'd gotten with her sometimes about the way she'd run her club, he was actually pretty thankful she hadn't fired him earlier than she had. By letting him work there, she'd given him a chance to look after Clarke, to keep a closer eye on her than he otherwise would have been able to.

"How have you guys been?" she asked him.

"Good. Money's tight sometimes, but we get by." He shrugged, figuring they'd continue to do so. "What about you?"

"I, uh . . . I closed down the strip club a couple months ago," she admitted.

"Really?" That surprised him. Murphy hadn't mentioned it, but then again, Murphy had gotten a better job almost a full year ago.

"Yeah. It was just time," she said, her face taking on a look of . . . regret. "To be honest, I think you and Clarke falling in love is probably the only good thing that ever happened there."

He nodded, remembering _lots_ of bad things. Roan, Echo, McCreary, Ontari. That last one was a permanent stain on Anya's conscience for sure. He was actually surprised she'd kept the club running as long as she had after that. "Well, thanks for coming," he said. "I'm sure Clarke will be surprised to see you."

"I'm sure," Anya agreed. "Oh, a gift from me and Luna and Niylah," she said, handing over a small box wrapped very neatly in shimmering silver paper. "They send their best wishes."

"Thanks." Even without seeing it, he could tell it was probably a new silverware set or dishes or something. It seemed like a lot of people bought things that could be used in the kitchen, like blenders and toasters and stuff. Except Murphy and Emori. They'd bought exactly the gift he'd asked for, and he couldn't wait to surprise Clarke with it later on.

...

With only twenty minutes left to go before the ceremony was set to begin, Clarke was amazed with how good Harper was doing with the whole hair and makeup situation. Her makeup was legitimately _done_ , and her hair was _almost_ done. They were going for a soft, beachy waves type of look, nothing that needed to be tucked or pinned or put up or anything. But it did require a bit of styling, mostly straightening to take the natural small curls out of her hair, and then a little curling on the ends to make it look like it was just falling in waves over her shoulders. Harper knew what she was doing, so Clarke just sat there and let her work.

When someone knocked on the door, Harper yelled, "Occupado!" as she loosely coiled one of the last remaining sections of Clarke's hair around the curling iron.

"Clarke?"

Oh, she recognized that voice. That wasn't just anybody knocking on that door. It was her _mom._ Harper must have recognized it, too, because she stopped working on Clarke's hair and went to open the door. "Hey," she said. "I'll just . . . I'll just go away for a minute." Curling iron in hand, she left the room, and in came not only one but _both_ of Clarke's parents.

"Mom. Dad." She got up and hugged them both. "You guys made it."

"Well, of course we made it," her mom said. "Where else would we be?"

"I heard there were storms up your way last night, and I wasn't sure if you'd make it on time," she admitted. Neither one of them had been particularly pleased that she'd decided to get married with only a few month's advanced notice, so even though things were a _lot_ better between the three of them now, she'd also worried that one of them might back out and decide not to attend at last minute.

"No storm could keep us from being here on your wedding day," her father said.

"Where's everyone else?" Surely they hadn't driven down together.

"Your stepfather's downstairs," her mom replied.

"And your other stepfather's downstairs, too," her dad added. "And Wells is here. The whole extended family."

 _Wow,_ she thought, surprised that even her stepbrother had shown up. They'd done Thanksgiving with the Jaha clan, but they were all still sort of in the process of figuring out what that family interaction would feel like. It was nice of them both to come.

"What about Bellamy's family?" her mom questioned. "Are any of them showing up?"

"No," Clarke admitted. "He's not really . . ." He'd let them _know_ he was getting married today, but the most he was hearing back from them was _congratulations_ in the form of a text. "Octavia and I are his family," she said, figuring it was best to just leave it at that.

Her mom nodded, and instead of poking and prodding for more information about that, as she once might have done, she just let it be.

"It's a shame his mother couldn't be here," her dad said.

"It is. It is a shame," her mom agreed. "But I guess I'll be his mother-in-law soon, won't I?"

"Oh god." That was _crazy_ to think about, but hopefully it'd end up being a good thing. Bellamy was still getting to know her mom, and he and her dad were . . . kind of starting over. But if they got to know him better, then maybe they could sort of be parental figures to him. After all, he'd never had that before. "Be a nice one," she told her mom. "He deserves it."

...

Bellamy put on his black tuxedo jacket, relieved that it fit. It wasn't actually _his_ tux. He'd rented it from a formalwear store about twenty minutes out of town. He wasn't used to dressing up like this, and Clarke had even told him that he could just wear a casual suit or something. But he knew that even her so-called casual dress was going to look amazing on her, so . . . he felt like he had to step it up.

The door to his bedroom opened, and Octavia poked her head in. "Wow," she said. "You look kind of dashing."

"My hair's everywhere," he said, running his hand through it, "but that's kinda how Clarke likes it."

She came into the room and did him a favor by coming his hair down just a little bit. Then she readjusted his bowtie, which he _hoped_ matched his brown vest alright. He'd done a little mixing and matching at the rental store to get the best bargain.

"I can't believe you're getting _married_ ," she said. "I mean, I _can,_ because it's you and Clarke, but . . ." She trailed off and smiled. "I'm just really happy for you. And Mom . . ."

He tensed up a bit.

"Mom would be proud of you," she finished softly.

"You think?" He wasn't sure his mother had ever been proud of him.

"Yeah," she insisted. "She might not have known how to say it out loud, but . . . she would be."

It was a nice thought, one he wasn't exactly convinced by, but nice nonetheless. Wherever their mom was now, maybe she could see all this happening today. And maybe she was happy for him just like his sister was.

"You're a good person," Octavia said, "and she never really found a good person to have in her life."

He swallowed hard. No, she hadn't. But she'd sure as hell found a lot of bad ones.

"Clarke's lucky to have you," Octavia said as she finished up with all the little adjustment she was making to his tux.

"No, I'm the lucky one," he claimed. People liked to make a big deal out of what he'd done for Clarke, but she'd done so much for him, too. Probably more than she would ever even realize.

...

 _Here we go,_ Clarke thought excitedly as music began to play. _Here we go._

It wasn't the traditional wedding song or even "Canon in D" for that matter that began to play as the flower girl and ring-bearer—two kids who lived about a mile down the road—walked down the aisle. It was an acoustic guitar cover of "Time After Time." Clarke had recently taught two of her guitar students how to play it, and now here they were playing it today. It sounded beautiful. Soft and mellow and happy.

She only had two bridesmaids, Harper and Octavia, so she hadn't bothered naming one of them as maid of honor and one not. Harper was the first down the aisle with Monty, and Octavia and Ilian followed. They weren't wearing matching dresses, and there was no set color theme, and that was just fine with Clarke. It wasn't about what people were wearing. Although she _did_ love what she was wearing.

"You ready?" her dad asked when it was time for them to walk.

She smiled and nodded, linking her arm with his. It was hard not to notice the tears in his eyes, and that made her feel emotional, too.

When Octavia and Ilian split off to separate sides of the altar, she had a clear view of Bellamy at the end of the aisle. Everyone else was on their feet and looking back at her, but it almost felt like they just faded away, and all she could see was him. He looked as excited as she felt, and he looked so _good_ in his tux, and his freckles were just adorable. He had the most loving look in his eyes as she walked forward with her dad, a look that made her heart race. Her long white dress flowed around her, and every few seconds, his eyes dropped from hers long enough to take in the whole sight of her. He looked amazed.

Out of the corners of her eyes, she faintly registered the small crowd of people who had shown up for this. Besides her friends, she did spy Thelonious and Wells up in the second row, along with Kane. Her mom was up in the front row, already crying, an empty chair next to her reserved for Clarke's dad. She spotted Miller, even Anya, but she couldn't pay much attention to them, not when all her attention was on the man in front of her. The man who, three months ago, had woken her up in the middle of the night, gotten down on one knee, and asked her to marry him. The man who was going to be her husband in a matter of minutes. The same man who'd once gifted her the treble clef necklace around her neck.

When they'd gotten to him, her dad took a moment to hug her. She could tell he was trying to hold it together, but by the end of the ceremony, he'd be crying just like her mom was. He gave Bellamy a look then, and a small nod. Bellamy nodded back. Clarke wasn't sure what exactly they were communicating there, but whatever it was, they both seemed to understand.

Underneath a beautiful flower arch—Octavia really had done a nice job—was a small platform for her to step up on. Bellamy took her hands and helped her up, and as the music started to fade, he whispered, "You look pretty."

"You look sexy," she whispered back. Hopefully no one sitting out there could read lips.

For someone who'd gotten ordained online, Indra was a pretty amazing minister. Being that she worked for the woman, Clarke had never really doubted her capabilities to take charge of a situation, but she was _effortless_ , like she'd been doing it for years. She started out by welcoming everyone and thanking everyone for coming from nearby and far away alike. She went on to say that Bellamy and Clarke were so grateful for everyone who had come to support them in their decision to get married today, and that they also remembered loved ones who could not be there. Clarke saw something flash through Bellamy's eyes, just for a second. It wasn't exactly a look of pain, but clearly that made him think of his mom.

"Bellamy and Clarke," Indra went on, "marriage is the promise between two people who love each other, who trust in that love, and who honor one another as individuals in that togetherness."

 _Together,_ Clarke thought. _Us against the world._ It really didn't feel like that anymore, even though they were still together. It felt like the world was finally on their side.

"A strong marriage nurtures each of you as individuals and allows you to maintain who you are while you grow in your own way through the years ahead. It's . . ." She paused for a moment, smiling at the two of them. "It's a chance to share your desires, your fears, your successes and your failures with one other person, the person you want to spend the rest of your life with."

Bellamy gave Clarke's hands a gentle squeeze.

Indra opened up a Bible and read a piece of scripture after that. Clarke wasn't particularly religious, and Bellamy was even less so, but it was nice, all about love. Then after that, it was already time for the vows, and even though she'd written hers out about a month ago, Clarke's mind suddenly went blank.

"Who wants to go first?" Indra asked.

Bellamy raised his hand like a kid in class and volunteered, "I will."

"Go right ahead," Indra urged.

 _Oh god, oh god,_ Clarke thought, feeling a bit nervous for a moment. She and Bellamy had never really doubted their decision to write their own vows, but what if he was super eloquent in his, and she just sounded like a spaz who couldn't remember one single word?

"Clarke . . ." he started in, doing that thing where he just said her name and then paused for a couple seconds. (He did that a lot.) "Two years ago, if someone had told me I'd be here right now, I would've said they were crazy," he admitted. "'cause I mean, getting married? Wasn't even a blip on my radar."

 _Definitely not,_ she thought. The Bellamy she'd first gotten to know had casually dated girls he didn't even like and had been prone to having one-night stands.

"I didn't even know you back then," he went on. "I didn't know there was gonna be a you. I didn't know . . ." He trailed off momentarily, catching his breath. "I didn't know I was gonna fall in love with you," he said, his eyes locked intently onto hers. "Because back then, I didn't even know what being in love felt like. I mean, how could I? I'd never felt it before. With anyone."

She hadn't known, either. Not really. What she'd had with Finn didn't even come close to comparing to this.

"And then I met you," he said, "and you pretty much turned my whole world upside down. I don't know what it was, but . . . I just felt like I wanted to look out for you."

"You did," she assured him quietly. He might not have been able to protect her from absolutely everything, but he'd always been there for her, and he'd always done his best to keep any harm from coming to her.

"I know it hasn't always been easy for us," he acknowledged. "We've been through some stuff. And I know we're gonna have to go through more, but . . . I wanna go through it all with you. The good, the bad, the simple times, the rough times . . . I wanna live every single day with you by my side."

 _Me, too,_ she thought, her heart swelling with affection. Everything he was saying was everything she felt.

"I wanna take care of you for the rest of my life," he said. "And you take care of me, too, by the way. More than you realize." He brushed his thumb over her knuckles and told her, "You make me feel like a man. Like a good one."

She inhaled shakily, on the verge of tears. He _was_ a good man, no matter what. But it was so rare of him to ever refer to himself that way.

Glancing to Indra unsurely, he mumbled, "I think that's it," and a few people in the front chuckled lightly.

"Clarke, your turn then," Indra urged.

"Oh, wow," she said through an exhale, "I just forgot everything I was gonna say." Hell, this whole wedding had been pretty spontaneous, though, very little planning going into it on her end. Why not just speak from the heart and say whatever she felt in the moment? Clearing her throat, she started in: "Bellamy, when I first met you, you were locked out of your apartment by your girlfriend. And you were late for work," she reminded him.

He nodded sheepishly while people laughed.

"So what did I do on my first day in New York City? I gave a ride to a guy I didn't even know," she recalled, shrugging. "I don't know why. But I'm glad I did." She hadn't known it at the time, but that one moment had changed _everything._ For the better. "But even after that, I could've just been nobody to you," she continued. "You could've forgotten about me, and I could've just been . . . well, for lack of a better term, the girl next door."

He smirked.

"But I wasn't. For whatever reason, you ended up caring about me. More than anyone else ever has." She started to feel choked up as she thought about some of the things he'd done for her, things that had required him to make a sacrifice. "And I'm so grateful for that," she told him, her voice quaking. "I don't know where I'd be without you. I don't even wanna think about it."

He brought his hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it.

"You told me once that once that not all princesses are spoiled; you said some are really badass and brave," she recalled. "But I don't think I used to be brave. I think I learned that. And I think I'm brave now because of you." He inspired her, truthfully, in ways she couldn't even fully articulate. "Because I know that, even if I take a chance and fail, you'll be right there to catch me. You'll always be there for me. So . . . you make me brave. You make me bold. You give me strength, and you make me feel like I can do anything I set my mind to." She hadn't realized she'd begun to cry until she felt a tear sliding down her cheek. "You make me feel happy, and I love you so much."

"I love you," he whispered, giving her hands another squeeze.

She couldn't remember one word of what she'd said after the words had left her mouth, but judging by how hard her parents were both crying in the front row, it must have been good. They exchanged rings next, and Indra said something nice about how a ring was a fitting symbol of true love because it never ended. It just continued on forever. First Bellamy slid the ring onto Clarke's finger, just a simple, shiny band fused with her small diamond engagement ring, and next she slid the ring onto his. His hands were steady, but hers were trembling.

And at the end of it all came the moment they'd both been waiting for, the moment when Indra proudly declared, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. Bellamy, you may kiss your bride."

And Bellamy didn't even hesitate. Everyone cheered as they had their first married kiss. It felt just as powerful and electric as the first one, one that had taken place up on a stage, one that had been scripted but somehow never part of the plan.

They turned to face their family and friends, and everyone stood and clapped and hollered for them. Clarke leaned against Bellamy, almost dizzy with happiness, and he put his arm around her waist and asked, "You okay?"

She nodded. God, she was so much more than okay.

...

A backyard wedding naturally lent itself to a backyard reception. Octavia had arranged numerous tables and chairs, and Ilian had hooked up a sound system. They could play the music as loudly as they wanted to, because there was no one around for miles.

"What song did you choose?" Clarke asked Bellamy as she looped her arms around his neck.

"You'll see," he said, settling his hands in the curve of her waist. She'd left that task to him, wanting to be surprised, so he'd gone through a lot of the songs he'd heard her sing over the past two years and finally settled on one.

As "I'll Look After You" by The Fray began to play, her eyes lit up. "I love this song," she said.

"I know you do." He'd never forget hearing her sing it up on stage at the other side of the club. He'd been in love with her before that moment, but that was when he'd _known._

They had their first dance as husband and wife, and after that, it was a party. The music switched to upbeat stuff, including some Taylor Swift crap that made his ears bleed. But Clarke had some vocal students there, so they sang some of the songs with her. And she and Harper danced together, and when the music slowed down again, she had a nice dance with her dad. Her mom asked Bellamy to dance with her, and even though he stepped on her feet a few times, it pretty much went off without a hitch.

Their wedding photographer was the same guy who took all the sports photos for the school, and he sure as hell was snapping a lot of them. He promised Bellamy they'd have a huge wedding album, and it'd be a mix of posed pictures and candids. At one point, he took Clarke, Octavia, and Harper back over to the wedding arch to pose together, then brought her parents over and did the same. He got pictures of Clarke and Bellamy cutting the cake, which Indra had made for them, and he put the camera on sports mode and got shot after shot of the bouquet toss. Bellamy held his breath during that, but even though Octavia came dangerously close to grabbing it, it sailed right into Harper's hands.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, holding it up loud and proud for everyone to see.

Bellamy sent Monty a look, and he just grinned and shrugged. Yeah, just a matter of time there.

Even though they did dance and mingle with other people, neither Bellamy nor Clarke ventured too far away from each other for much time. He spent a lot of the afternoon with his hand on the small of her back, and whenever she got the chance, she seemed to just want to hug him and nuzzle her face against his neck. As much as he loved being able to celebrate this huge, life-changing occasion with their family and friends . . . he also couldn't wait to get her alone.

...

"Uh . . ." Clarke moaned as her husband made one final push into her. Her _husband._ She was fucking her _husband_ now, and it felt great.

He lay on top of her for a moment, holding himself up, then looked down at her with his hair halfway covering his eyes and said, "Mmm, married sex is good."

"Yeah, it is," she agreed, rubbing her hands over the strong muscles of his back. "Can't wait to have some more of it."

He smirked and pulled out of her, lying down next to her in their bed. "I'll take you on a real honeymoon someday," he promised.

"This is fine." So what if they didn't have enough money to afford an actual vacation? They'd spend all their time in the hotel anyway. "All I need is you and a bed," she claimed.

"And food," he added.

"You can feed me." Rolling over onto her side, she tugged his bottom lip in between her own and gave him a sloppy kiss.

"Ah, my wife's got a dirty mind," he said, smoothing her hair back from her face.

She smiled and blushed.

"You wanna take a break for a minute, though?" he asked.

The night was still young, and she really could have just kept going, but her curiosity was piqued. "To do what?" she questioned.

"To go somewhere."

Well, now her curiosity was _really_ piqued. He wanted to get up out of that bed? While they were naked? This had to be good. "Where do you wanna go?" she asked, willing to go pretty much anywhere with him.

They got dressed—barely—and they got into her car and drove further down the dirt road to the small bridge. It'd become a nice little relaxation spot for them this past year. They came out there together whenever one of them was feeling stressed or upset or just needed to clear their head.

"Are we going skinny-dipping?" she asked. "Because I'm not entirely opposed to that."

"Not quite," he said, looking out on the calm river for a moment before he turned to her and blurted, "I wanna show you something."

She blinked rapidly in confusion, completely clueless as to what was going on.

"Close your eyes," he told her.

She gave him a perplexed look.

"Just do it," he urged.

Since the chances that he was going to pick her up and dump her in the water were _really_ slim, she did as he said, and when he instructed, "Put your hand out," she did that, too. Seconds later, she felt a small object being set down in her palm. It was hard and cold and . . . pretty easy to identify based on touch alone.

"Okay," he said, "open your eyes."

Even though she already knew what it was, she gasped in delight, and she was sure her whole face still lit up when she actually laid eyes on it. "Oh my god, Bellamy." There it was, the exact same pink lock they'd put on the Brooklyn Bridge over a year ago, lying unlocked in her hand. It had _Bellamy and Clarke 4ever_ written on one side in her girly handwriting. The marker hadn't smeared or faded at all. It looked the same as it had the day they'd put it on there. It was _theirs._

"Surprise," he said.

This was unreal. She couldn't believe this same exact lock was in her hand right now. "How did you get this?" she asked him incredulously, turning the lock over in her hand. On the other side, in all caps was what Bellamy had written: WE BELONG TOGETHER.

"I didn't really do much," he said with a shrug. "I asked Murphy and Emori to track it down for me, so they did."

No wonder they hadn't brought a wedding gift then. "That must've taken them forever."

"Well, I kind of told them where on the bridge it was," he explained. "But yeah, they said it took a while. And it took a professional locksmith to get it off. But here it is."

She shook her head in astonishment, marveling at this little souvenir of their relationship. "This is amazing," she said, truly blown away. "I never thought I'd see this again."

"Well, now you're gonna see it whenever you want," he told her. "'cause we're gonna put it on this bridge."

"We are?" She looked around at the old wooden railings. There were no locks there, so theirs would be the first.

"Yeah. Right here," he said, walking a bit to the left, where a metal chain was tied to the wooden posts. He must have come out here a few days ago and put it there. "Go ahead," he said.

She walked towards him, feeling a sense of _déjà vu_ as she hooked the lock into a chain link and pushed it shut into place. She heard a click, gave it a tug, and it wasn't going anywhere. "It looks perfect," she said, imagining how heartwarming it would be to take their kids out to this bridge someday so they could see it. It wasn't the Brooklyn Bridge, but . . . it was actually way nicer.

" _Bellamy and Clarke Forever_ ," he read off of the lock.

"We belong together," she said, loving the sound of that.

His arms wrapped around her waist, and hers circled around his neck as he pulled her against him and kissed her. She felt so safe, so content, and so centered in his arms. It seemed like moments like this with him were a safe haven to each of them, a place where they could be better together than they ever could be apart. Whenever he kissed her, she understood with complete clarity who he was—the love of her life—and who she was—the love of his. She understood who _they_ were together, who they would always be, and she just knew . . .

She'd never be lost again.

THE END


End file.
